In Retrospective
by madnorthnorthwest
Summary: Ten years after her marriage to Rochester, Jane is writing her autobiography with her husband as her only critic. But, as she must soon learn, life still holds surprises... edit: I have changed the rating to M, due to the comments on particular scenes.
1. Author's Note

**Author's Note**

I wouldn't have thought this is necessary but I see now that it is. So, let's talk about sex.  
This story contains sex scenes. Indeed, it gets quite explicit in an implicit way. If you do not believe Jane and Rochester have an active sex life after their marriage, you maybe should not read this story. And you should re-read Jane Eyre. I especially suggest you should read chapters 15, 24 and 27. They are two very passionate people and as Toby Stephens put it two "very sexual people." Yes, I'm also influenced by the 2006 BBC adaptation. But anyway, this is not Jane Austen. Rochester isn't the man who stood around all day, being busy with being proud and hating to dance (though I don't know whether he likes to dance or not). He is, or at least in my opinion he is, the one who let himself be tricked into a marriage just because the woman was beautiful and exotic, travelled the world and had mistresses everywhere (he could have just become a drunkard instead or committed suicide), the one who raged after being deprived of a wedding night, the one who likes telling Jane very much at the beginning of their acquaintance and very openly what kind of life he's been living and what happened between himself and Céline. And as for Jane, she tells us she'd have rather pleased than teased him and desperately falls in love with him after that fire in Rochester's bedroom. Oh! the symbolism.  
It does appear, I admit, like they were not very passionate anymore once they were married when you read chapter 38. But, doesn't all the rest of the book show them in a quite different light? Charlotte Bronte maybe couldn't have it end in any other way or didn't want to or had to end it in what was considered the Victorian ideal. I don't know. But it seems odd to me that these two passionate people should live a rather prudish life.  
But I do not want to sound like I look at it as a purely sexual novel. I'm just trying to defend that aspect of my story. I must add that the reason for these scenes is the context in which the story came about. It started with me thinking that if it is "Jane Eyre - An Autobiography" then, technically, Jane must have written it herself. And Rochester, I thought, must be there to listen, comment and help out. And that it probably would make him miserable to hear all that and to get told how harsh he was towards her. And, being the loving husband that he is, feeling the need to make it all up to her. That, by the way, was someone else's idea but I thought it was nice. And then, when being told about a quote from a newspaper that went something like "Ten years after they marry, the Darcys will be having tea and toast at the breakfast table, whereas the Rochesters will still be in bed till midday, having ordered that they do not be disturbed," I started my story based on all this. In the end, it turned out to become something quite different and much more complex from chapter 3 on and I probably would have done it a bit differently had I intended the plot to go in that direction from the beginning. But then I thought it would still be fun the way it is now.

I.K.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: My Edward and I, then, are Happy**

_Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern—much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was, in short, in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too—not without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling…_  
"There you are!", a deep voice suddenly roused her from her train of thought.  
Instantly, she put down the pen. She knew that voice. She would have recognized it among all the voices of the world. It was her husband's voice. He had been standing at the door for at least 5 minutes without making a single noise. But she did not need to hear him to know he was near. She had sensed his presence. Yet, she had not stopped writing, had pretended not to notice him, so as to make him believe that he had succeeded in remaining unnoticed. She had let him observe her, had tolerated his look which, as she had felt, had rested on her from the moment of his entrance. He approached her now. She heard the soft click of his boots on the wooden floor.  
"You are writing again", he noted as he reached the desk. He stood right behind her, trying to read what she had written. But his ailing vision did not allow him to make out the words from this distance.  
"What are you writing, Jane?", he asked with curiosity. "Is it your autobiography again?"  
"Yes", she said smiling inwardly. She knew what would follow. And, indeed, he did not let her down.  
"Read it to me, then", he demanded. Then, realizing that his tone had been too harsh, added: "I mean, I would love to hear what you have written, my dear."  
Again she smiled. Only this time, the smile really turned up on her face. After 10 years, he still—from time to time—failed to be courteous.  
Jane heard him walk over to the armchair. She waited until he had sat down.  
"I am not sure that is a good idea", she then replied.  
"Of course it is.", he insisted. "You know how much I enjoy listening to you."  
Silence.  
"Please, Jane", he added in a friendly voice.  
More silence.  
Of course she did not intend to withhold her work from her husband. She had no secrets. She wasn't ashamed. She just liked to tease him a little bit. She enjoyed the tone in his voice when he started pleading.  
"I promise I will not interrupt you this time", Rochester added submissively.  
Jane now turned around to look at her husband. His dark eyes sought hers immediately. He looked so quiet, so pleased. Completely different from what she had just described in her book.  
"But then, reading it to you would be quite boring and useless", she said, referring to the promise he had just made.  
A grin appeared on Rochester's face as he realized she had just been playing with him.  
"Well then" said he. "In that case I will comment on everything you have written."  
Jane nodded satisfied and began reading to him the passage she had just written down before his entrance. Rochester sat listening attentively to every word she uttered. He watched her lips while she was speaking. And even when she was done, he seemed to have difficulties averting his eyes.  
"Preciously grim? Granite-hewn features?", Rochester repeated sullenly. "That is the first impression I made on you?"  
Jane nodded. "Well", she then corrected herself. "It is not the description of my very first impression of you, to be precise."  
She hastily turned some pages. Then added: "The words I used there are 'stern, ireful, thwarted, and roughness'."  
She quickly lifted her eyes to observe his reaction. He winced but said nothing. Jane wasn't sure whether he was about to jump up and leave the room or break down and cry. Of course, nothing of that sort happened. All he did was sitting in his armchair and staring absent-mindedly at the fireplace opposed to him. It was summer and a very hot one as well, so there was no fire burning in the room. Seeing her husband so upset, Jane was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of unbearable sympathy. He just could not bear being reminded of his former behaviour towards her. Slowly, she rose from her chair and walked over to her husband.  
"I am sorry", she said, kissing his head tenderly. "I did not mean to…"  
"No no. I am fine", he cut her off. "In fact, I must apologise. For I was a fool back then. Though I could see, I was blind. My eyes had not been opened to the true beauty of your character. I suspected something. Yet, I could not have expected the intensity of my love to you. Or the undeviating loyalty and fidelity of which you are capable. And I am forever grateful, for despite my grim features and my harsh behaviour, you have surrounded me with your love, honoured me with your cheerfulness and blessed me with wonderful children."  
His words were like daggers in her heart. They earned him a long kiss during which she sat down on his lap.  
"You know", Jane said in a low voice. "You could just make up for it."  
She smiled. So did he. It would not have been the first time this chair had been used for purposes other than intended. In fact, when they were alone, the couple rarely just sat and talked. Or, when they did, they rarely stuck to it.  
"Right now?", he replied.  
Jane nodded. "Well, unless, of course, you have more important things to…"  
Ere she could finish the sentence, the door was opened and a boy, approximately 6 years old, came in. His hair was dark and curly. His eyes were bright and sparkling. A smile stretched across his face. Following the boy was an old, tired looking dog. Upon entering the room, the dog instantly let himself fall on the ground. The boy, on the other hand, cheerfully ran up to the armchair and immediately started talking.  
"When are you coming papa? You said you would show me how to make a slingshot. You promised it yesterday when we went fishing. Remember, papa? You promised it!"  
Jane, who had quickly leaned back when the door had been opened, looked at her son for a moment. Then she gazed at her husband.  
Rochester sighed.  
"Please, Nathan", he replied, irritated. "I am rather busy right now."  
He smiled at the boy, who now looked very disappointed, and then faced his wife again.  
Jane had her eyes fixed on Rochester.  
"You promised it", she repeated her son's words, with a penetrating look. And said nothing more.  
Rochester's 'but I do not want to please anybody' look appeared on his face. But Jane would not let him get away with it.  
"You promised it!", she said again and rose. "I will still be here when you get back. Go on!"  
Nathan's face brightened.  
"I am getting a slingshot, a slingshot", he exclaimed cheerfully and ran over to the door.  
Rochester rose too, reluctantly.  
"Come Pilot", he addressed the dog when passing him, and then disappeared through the door.  
And so she was alone in the room. Jane enjoyed the silence and did not feel lonely. In fact, she had almost forgotten what that feeling was like. There was always someone around. Either her husband or one of their precious children or one of the servants or at least Pilot. But not so now. Although Pilot was 14 or 15 years of age by now and could not hear very well anymore, he always seemed to understand what his master wanted just by looking at him and so had trotted off with Rochester and the boy.  
Jane walked over to the window so she could overlook the lawn in front of their house where she expected to see her husband and son any moment. About two years after their marriage, when Edward had been lucky with some business he had been engaged in, they had moved into another home. It was called Gavelkind and though it was not as big as Thornfield Hall, it suited a man of Rochester's position. It had two storeys with large banks of windows and there was a beautiful park behind the manor while an impressive lawn with very old trees stretched in front of the building.  
Finally, Rochester and Nathan appeared and passed the window. Edward was now in his late forties and though some grey hairs had started to appear on his head, he looked as young as when they had first met. And livelier than ever. She suspected that it was because of the children. They kept him young.  
Jane watched the two until they vanished behind a corner and, thus, were out of sight. She then returned to her desk to continue writing. She wrote for a couple of hours. It was late afternoon when her husband returned. This time he entered immediately and, after making sure that Pilot stayed outside the room, again stood behind her.  
"I take it Nathan has his slingshot now?", she asked.  
"The best slingshot in the world", replied Rochester. "We even carved in his name."  
She heard him draw closer.  
"He is busy for a while now", added her husband.  
She could feel him first touching, then gently kissing her neck. It tickled. She chuckled and turned around to face him. There was nothing but love in his eyes. Those dark, impressive eyes. They sparkled with anticipation. She kissed him, then rose so he would not have to bend over like that. She leaned against the desk while he leaned in to kiss her back. The kiss was passionate and it seemed to last forever. He was just reaching for the back of her neck when it knocked on the door.  
"Not now!", Rochester cried harshly and, because of that, let go of his wife for a moment.  
Jane, however, used this moment to slip away from his embrace. He quickly tried to recapture her lips, but it was in vain. She was now standing next to him, trying to fix her hair.  
"Come in", she encouraged the visitor.  
It was Mary.  
Rochester stood—his back to the door—supporting himself on the desk with his right arm, his head down as if trying to hide something embarrassing. Jane smiled kindly at the servant. She wasn't sure whether or not Mary knew what they had been doing.  
"Excuse me", said Mary. "I just wanted to let you know that dinner is ready."  
After having announced this, she apologised again and hurried out of the room.  
Jane once again fixed her hair and then moved towards the door.  
"Are you not coming?", she asked her husband when she had reached it and he still had not moved.  
"Give me a moment", he murmured. "I just need to…" he stopped and seemed to search for the right words. He obviously failed and, thus, just repeated: "Give me a moment."  
It was only now that she understood.  
"Oohh", she uttered, smiling. "Well, I will go ahead into the dining room."  
She opened the door and, before closing it again, added: "We will wait with dinner until you are…_ready_."  
She especially emphasized the last word, smiling contentedly.

It took him only a few minutes to "recover." Rochester then turned up in the dining room shortly after his wife. The children were already seated. Almost all of them were present. Only the youngest ones, the twins, due to the fact that they were only a few months old, were upstairs. Edward took a seat next to his wife and the servants started to bring in the food.  
While they were all eating, Jane looked around. Her gaze paused on each of her children. There were Nathan and Jacob sitting next to each other, as always. They were like best friends, always playing together. Just now, Nathan was showing Jacob his new toy, explaining him how to make a slingshot. Then there was Eli, the only child whose hair was not black. He was a ginger. Jane could not tell whether it was something that he had inherited from her family or from his father's, for she had never met any Eyre. Or any other Rochester for that matter. Edward, however, claimed that he had had a great grandfather with red hair so they assumed he was responsible for it. Next to Edward sat Charlotte, their only daughter. Besides Adèle, that is. But Adèle was herself a young woman in her twenties by now. She lived in London and was about to get married. In fact, she was going to come home tomorrow to introduce her future husband to Jane and Edward. Charlotte, her mother observed with great pleasure, looked a lot like her father. She had the same nose and was capable of that same gloomy expression, unlike the boys, whose eyes always sparkled with joy. And she was just as good at using that look. She would give her mother that look whenever she was sent to bed early or whenever her brothers teased her. But all the features she shared with her father were a little softened so as to fit a female face. Strangely enough, none of the children shared their father's character. Quite the contrary was the case. All of them were full of the joys of life and were constantly laughing. They dreaded journeys that would take them out of the county. They would play outside till late in the afternoon without ever getting tired of the familiar gardens and woods that surrounded the property. It was this very circumstance that convinced Jane that, had he not been brought up the way he was, her Edward would have become the most light-hearted man that had ever walked this earth. She trembled at this thought. Her Edward, a light-hearted man. No, he certainly would not be her Edward then.  
"Jane!", Rochester presently said urgently.  
She shook her head as if that would keep her thoughts from wandering.  
"Yes, Edward?", she asked, having obviously missed an entire conversation.  
"Eli suggested that we could all have a picnic tomorrow when Adèle and Mr. Baily are here."  
Jane was pleased. "What a wonderful idea. Yes, let us have a picnic tomorrow. I will inform the servants about our plans right after dinner."  
Everyone began chatting about this upcoming event and, thus, the air was filled with laughter and mutterings.  
So dinner passed and the children rose one after another until, in the end, only Jane and Rochester remained in the dining room.  
"What do you think", Rochester inquired. "Shall we go to bed early today?"  
He was obviously in his after-dinner mood.  
Jane frowned. "Well, you still have to make up for all the dreadful pain you have caused me."  
A smile flashed over the corners of his mouth.  
"And", he said. "You have to read to me from your book. I saw you wrote a good deal while I was out making slingshots."  
So it was agreed upon that Jane would fetch her notes while Rochester would take care that all the children were put to bed soon.

The sun had already set behind the hills of the county and there was only a mere glow slightly visible around the hilltop when Jane arrived in the bedroom. Rochester was already in bed waiting for her. She put the sheets of paper that she had brought with her down on the nightstand, then began to undress herself.  
Rochester watched her, as he sat with his back leaning against the headboard. It was a huge bed with richly ornamented pillars and the most comfortable mattress Jane had ever known. The bedroom itself was the most beautiful room in the house. It had a dark wooden floor and large windows framed by red curtains that perfectly matched the wooden furniture. Jane made sure that there were always as many flowers as possible in the room. Her favourite boquet was always to be placed on the little drawer cabinet next to the door. This was where she kept the letters that Edward sent her when he was away on business for a longer period of time. For them that meant anything longer than 24 hours. Fortunately, Edward did not travel much anymore. After their marriage he had not travelled for two years. It was only shortly after they had moved into Gavelkind that he could not avoid to travel. He had to go to London due to pressing business. Four years ago he then had to go to the continent for the first time since their marriage. He had spent almost five months in Paris. A most painful time for both of them. Especially since Charlotte had just been born and Rochester had been so excited about the baby being a girl. Jane still read the letters he had sent her during his absence. And they still made her cry. All the worries and his longing for home expressed in them.  
Jane now joined her husband in bed.  
"Jacob now wants a slingshot, too", he mentioned.  
Jane chuckled. "Well then. Make him a slingshot tomorrow."  
"I guess", Edward pondered. "I can do that during our picnic."  
"Very well", said Jane and kissed him briefly.  
Jacob was their first-born. And although Eli, being eight years old, was closer to his age and although Nathan was three years younger than him, it was Nathan he spent most of his time with. Jacob and Nathan were inseparable. The one child would always want to play the same games or have the same toys as the other. Jane was curious whether they would still share the same interests once they grew older.  
"So", mumbled Rochester. "You were going to read to me from your book."  
"If you wish to hear it."  
"Please."  
So she reached for the sheets of paper and read out all that she had written.  
_…He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, then in both his own.  
"You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation: but you: it is different;—I feel your benefits no burden, Jane."  
He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,—but his voice was checked.  
"Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in the case."  
"I knew," he continued, "you would do me good in some way, at some time;—I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not"—(again he stopped)—"did not" (he proceeded hastily) "strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, goodnight!"  
Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.  
"I am glad I happened to be awake," I said: and then I was going.  
"What! you will go?"  
"I am cold, sir."  
"Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!" But he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an expedient.  
"I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir," said I.  
"Well, leave me:" he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.  
I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy—a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned._  
When she had ended, Jane put the notes back on the nightstand and looked at Rochester questioningly.  
"I am very sorry you had a sleepless night after that fire", he commented. "I did not know that."  
"Oh I had many sleepless nights at Thornfield", Jane retorted.  
He smiled a silly smile.  
"My cherished preserver? I really said that, did I?"  
She nodded.  
"Well, Jane", he thus continued. "I am amazed at how detailed you remember all these things. They must have made a lasting impression on you."  
"Very much so. But then again, I am only writing down the things I do remember."  
"Which is quite a lot. I cannot think of anything worth being added."  
She smiled contentedly.  
"There is, however, one thing I do not agree with", Rochester said after a moment of silence.  
His wife's smile vanished instantly. She could not possibly imagine what it was that he would not agree with and she oddly feared his criticism.  
"There is too much 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'", he then complained. "I mean, I know you said that…all the time, to be precise. But must you repeat that in your autobiography? You should call me Edward in it. I am your husband after all."  
Now Jane's smile reappeared.  
"You are now", she explained. "But we were not married then. And if I called you Edward, the reader would already guess that we married."  
Rochester stared at her blankly.  
"Look", she thus added. "That is exactly why I chose to call it 'Jane Eyre – An Autobiography'. Had I used my name—Jane Rochester—everybody would see you as my husband, or future husband, throughout the book. That would manipulate their image of you. And of me for that matter."  
"Fine", said Rochester, though her explanation did not seem to satisfy him. "Then at least do not use 'master'. Erase it. I do not want to see it in your autobiography."  
She frowned helplessly.  
"You know as well as I do that I never was your master", he went on. "The very first time we met, I lay at your feet. You had to support me. How could I possibly have been your master after such an incident?"  
Whenever he said 'master', he pronounced it with the utmost disgust.  
"You", he then ended. "Had control over me from the very first day."  
"Well, I am sorry that you do not understand the intentions behind my decision", Jane declared. "But I will not change that…sir!"  
He winced when he heard her call him that.  
"Do not ever say that again!", he demanded.  
"I will say it as much as I like, sir."  
"Jane!"  
"Yes, sir?"  
"I do not want to see your pretty little mouth form this word when you are talking to me. Do you understand?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Then, will you please stop it?"  
"No, sir."  
He hushed her with a deep kiss, then gently pushed her down on the bed and began exploring her body with his right hand. Jane did not resist. She enjoyed his touch, longed for his kisses, awaited the feeling of his skin on hers.  
She got it all.


	3. Chapter 2

**Note:** I have changed the rating to M due to the comments on particular scenes. I advise everyone to read the Author's note which I have also added.

**Chapter 2: Modesty & Impartiality**

She woke to the feeling of perfect satisfaction. The summer sun shone through the window and tickled her face. For a moment she concentrated on the feeling of the bed sheet on her naked skin. A reminder of how they had spent the night. Jane turned around to face her husband. His eyes were closed, he breathed deeply and regularly. He was still asleep. She watched him. His features had softened a bit due to years of happiness and joy. He still did not pass for a good-looking man, though. The scar on his forehead, as well as the mutilated arm did not contribute to making his appearance more handsome. Jane did not even notice these deficiencies anymore. She sometimes had to remind herself of them when Edward was descending the stairs rather slowly or when he had problems handling a knife or a fork. She had noticed, however, that other people often evaded her husband. Or they would stare at him with disgust or start mumbling when they passed him. It pained her to see these reactions. Normally, Jane had nothing but disregard for these people. But she would never forget one instance when she and Edward had been to a party where there had been some people they had never seen before.

[flashback]

The woman, who had been sitting next to Jane on a sofa for quite a while without saying a word, suddenly turned to her (probably because she had no one else to talk to), and pointed at Rochester, who was conversing with Lord Faulkner.  
"Do you see that man talking to Lord Faulkner?", the woman asked.  
Jane nodded quietly.  
"I do not know how Faulkner can talk to him so calmly", the woman commented.  
"Why?", responded Jane, not suspecting anything in particular.  
The woman, in her long blue dress and expensive looking necklace, stared at Jane in surprise.  
"Well", she said. "Have you looked at him? No, I suppose not. What interest would a young woman like you have in a man who is so much older. He could be your father after all."  
"True", Jane replied, determined not to give away too much.  
"Anyway", the woman continued. "Look at him now, he is busy talking. So he will not notice."  
Jane did as suggested: Looked at her Edward. She observed his smooth movements, admired his broad shoulders, black hair, and his slightly odd way of smiling.  
"Hideous, is he not?", the other woman interrupted her thoughts.  
"Most truly so", was Jane's answer. "But who knows, he may be the most lovable human being on earth. He may have other qualities."  
"That man?!", the woman exclaimed. "Never! I mean, he might be rich. But an appearance like that must cause one to be very much disliked and, hence, must make one very lonely and miserable. But you will learn these things when you get older, young woman."  
It was then that Jane started to feel anger broiling in her, but she kept quiet.  
The other woman whose name, as she would later learn, was Mrs. Howard and who was only a visitor in this part of the country, thus continued: "I mean, who could like such a despicable creature. Let alone _love_ it. He must be completely useless and quite helpless. A burden, I daresay."  
Mrs. Howard's superficiality made Jane sick. She wished to tell that woman what a wonderful man her Edward was, how she loved him more than her own life, and how her life had, in fact, only begun the very moment she had met him.  
A burden! Edward! How could anybody think of this most wonderful human being as a burden? Jane brimmed with anger. Yet, she forced herself to stay calm and not to express it. After all, the poor Mrs. Howard could not know what she was talking about. And so, Jane just smiled at her most charmingly. At that moment, Rochester—having finished his conversation with Lord Faulkner—came walking over to Jane.  
"Would you like something to drink, my love?", he asked her in the most tender voice.  
"Oh no, I am fine. Thank you", was the answer.  
"Well then, would you like to dance?"  
"With pleasure."  
So she took the hand he offered her and, with a polite nod, left Mrs. Howard whose face expressed shock, embarrassment, and some kind of jealousy at once.

[/flashback]

Thinking of this, Jane still felt the same absurd satisfaction Mrs. Howard's look had given her then.  
Rochester moved in his sleep. He now had his back turned to her. Jane carefully wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against his body, her lips close to his ear. She could feel the warmth of his skin. She wished they could stay like this forever. But it was probably already noon and they had to get up.  
"Edward", she whispered softly.  
No reaction.  
"Edward", she whispered again. "Edward, wake."  
She heard him mumble something, but he did not move.  
"Please Edward. It must be noon already. Wake up."  
Finally, he moved to lie on his back. He yawned and blinked sleepily. It took him a moment to cast off sleep.  
"But we cannot get up like that", he finally complained. "I was to make up for all the pain I caused you. Remember?"  
Jane raised an eyebrow.  
"You made up for that most of the night, Edward."  
He said nothing. So she continued.  
"And besides, Adèle and Mr. Baily are coming today. They might arrive any moment. We must get up."  
Rochester sighed while Jane got up and walked over to the basin. It did not take her long to get ready for the day. Rochester, however, was just getting up when Jane left the bedroom. She did not get very far though, for she met Mary in the gallery.  
"Ah, Mrs. Rochester. I am most glad to see you", the housekeeper greeted her. "I was about to knock on your door to inform you that Miss Adèle and Mr. Baily are here."  
Jane was positively surprised.  
"Oh, they are here already?", she asked.  
"Yes, ma'am. They are waiting in the drawing-room."  
"Oh", Jane said again. "Good. Yes. Well, tell them that Mr. Rochester and I will be with them in a moment."  
"Very well, ma'am."  
Mary bowed, then turned around to fulfil her duty.  
Jane had told Mary at least a hundred times that she did not need to bow. After all, they had both worked for Mr. Rochester once. But Mary insisted on doing it. Edward and Jane had very few servants now. So Mary's duties had been expanded. Jane, however, did not like to have others do everything for her. She would never get used to it. So she did at least some things herself. For example, they had no governess. Jane taught her children.  
She insisted on it.  
Jane waited for Edward in the gallery so that they would enter the drawing-room together. And so they did about ten minutes later.  
Mr. Baily was standing next to a sofa on which Adèle sat laughing heartily about something he must have said just before the Rochesters had entered. When she spotted them, Adèle jumped up and came running towards them. Jane could not help but notice her playful movements. Adèle was a pretty, young woman now. She had her hair gracefully knotted at the back of her head and was wearing a dress that accentuated her slim figure. Yet, when she ran, Jane was instantly reminded of the frisky little girl she used to be. That enthusiasm and gaiety was still in her manner.  
"Oh Adèle, how wonderful it is to see you", Jane greeted her.  
"It has been such a long time", the young woman replied in perfect English. "I missed you both very much."  
She then turned to Baily and waved to him to join them.  
Baily was a very handsome man with a stately figure. His clothes were plain and simple. He must have been in his late twenties, Jane guessed. In her letters, Adèle had never mentioned his age. However, her description of him, as Jane could now judge, had been very accurate.  
"How is everybody?", Adèle inquired excitedly. "How are the boys and Charlotte? How are the twins? May I see them?"  
"Settle down, my dear", Jane said. "You've had a long journey. You must be exhausted. Let us sit down, shall we?"  
This said, they all walked over to a corner and took a seat. The women sat down on the sofa while the men seated themselves on chairs. They began to talk. Adèle told them about the journey and about London and about the people they knew there.  
"Sounds like you enjoy yourself in London", Rochester remarked once she had finished talking.  
"Very much so. It is a very lively place. You never get bored."  
Rochester frowned. His opinion obviously differed from Adèle's.  
"And you, Mr. Baily", he addressed Adèle's acquaintance. "What do you think of it?"  
Baily was taken by surprise.  
"Of what, sir?", he asked nervously.  
"London. What do you think of London? Do you think it is a place where you never get bored? Perhaps a place where you will always find someone to accompany you, to entertain you?"  
"I don't think that is what Adèle…"Jane interjected as she noticed what her husband was aiming at. But he would not listen. That gloomy look, which she had not seen for so long, returned to his face.  
"Do you like to be entertained, Mr. Baily?", he added in a mysterious voice.  
"Entertained, sir?", Baily repeated anxiously. "I'm afraid I am not sure what you mean by that."  
But Edward did not answer. And, so, Baily continued.  
"I like to dance and I am a fairly good singer, I should think. At least that is what women tell me." He laughed. "Adèle and I have been to the opera once or twice. (turning to Adèle) Do you remember that, my darling?"  
As he said this, Baily glanced at Adèle with the most precious look on his face and immediately took her hand.  
"Oh yes, it was magnifique", she exclaimed.  
Rochester raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Fortunately, before he could say anything else, George entered the drawing-room.  
"I beg your pardon", George said when all eyes were focused on him. "But there is a letter for you again, Mr. Rochester."  
Edward rose from his chair the very moment George uttered the word 'again'. He looked alarmed.  
"It is from…", the servant began.  
"Thank you George", Rochester cut him off. "I will take care of that later. You may go now."  
George turned to go but was stopped by Jane. Rochester observed her with a troubled expression on his face.  
But Jane, having her eyes fixed on George, had not noticed the change in her husband's mood.  
"Wait", she said. "Bring us some water, will you? And then prepare everything for our picnic. We will set off in half an hour."  
George nodded and left.  
"A picnic?" Adèle cried. "What a wonderful idea. Are the boys coming? And Charlotte? And the twins? And what about Pilot? He is still alive, is he not?"  
And, again, Adèle was delirious with joy.

It was another hot and sunny day. Not a single cloud disrupted the eternal blue of the sky. They were all sitting on blankets on a meadow with all sorts of food and beverages scattered between them. Jane and Adèle were talking about the latest fashion and Nathan and Jacob were teasing Charlotte while Eli, Baily and Rochester ate in silence. Edward observed Baily who, in turn, was busy observing Adèle. It was obvious that he could not take his eyes off her. Rochester hoped that this was true for nothing but his eyes.  
"Would you please hand me an apple, Eli?", Rochester presently addressed his son.  
The boy obeyed. Rochester forcefully bit into the apple.  
"So", he then said. "What do you do, Mr. Baily?"  
"Excuse me?", the young man replied, having been occupied with gazing at Adèle.  
"What do you do?", Rochester repeated his question.  
Baily coughed slightly.  
"I'm a watchmaker, sir."  
"A watchmaker?!" Rochester exclaimed.  
Baily smiled slightly. "My father has his own workshop. I learned from him."  
Rochester bit into his apple again, then turned around to his wife.  
"Can I speak with you for a moment", he said.  
Jane nodded, they excused themselves and then walked a few steps.  
"He is a watchmaker", Rochester repeated grumpily what he had just heard.  
"I know", his wife said calmly as ever.  
"You knew this?", Edward replied in shock.  
"Yes. She told me about it in her letters."  
Edward stopped walking and threw a look of reproach at her.  
"And you did not think it necessary to tell me that?"  
Jane stopped as well. They were out of hearing by now.  
"Would it have changed anything?", she asked.  
"Well…"  
"She loves him, Edward."  
"He's a watchmaker."  
"And he loves her. Have you noticed the way he looks at her?"  
Jane had noticed it. It gave her great pleasure to watch the two. She glanced at them now. They were chatting and laughing and he was obviously flirting with her.  
"Yes", Edward answered. "I've seen it. They cannot marry."  
"Edward!"  
"He is a watchmaker!"  
Jane bit her lip in order to not use an argument she knew he would not like.  
"He is not rich. So what? You of all people must know better, Edward. You should know that love transcends boundaries, that it does not care about social classes, that it does not observe rules."  
"This is different.", he grumbled.  
"No, it is not!"  
She felt she would have to use that argument now since she could not think of another way to clarify her position.  
"I was your governess, Edward. You were my master. You paid me to work for you. I obeyed your orders…"  
"Stop it, Jane."  
She did.  
"Would you not have married me when I was still poor?", she asked tenderly.  
He lowered his head.  
"Of course I would have married you", he said. "I was going to. And I would still do it. I would marry you again, and again, and again. No matter how poor, or obscure, or ill, or mad you were. I have told you that before."  
Jane kissed his forehead, put her hand under his chin and lifted his head.  
"Then, why are we having this conversation?"

They returned to their family in silence and Rochester finished his apple engrossed in thought. He said not a single word to Baily for the rest of the day, for which Baily seemed to be rather grateful. When everyone had had enough to eat, they all split up to enjoy the sun. Adèle and Baily stayed on a blanket, Rochester sat in the grass a fair way off with his children constantly trying to make him play hide and seek, and Jane seized the opportunity to work on her book. She retreated to a tree where she was protected from the burning rays of the sun. A gentle breeze moved the leaves above her, causing a subtle rustling. The sweet scent of flowers teased her nose while she recalled the seemingly endless weeks of Rochester's absence and then the party at Thornfield that had followed his sudden departure after the fire.  
_…Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious—remarkably self-conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that science: though, as she said, she liked flowers, "especially wild ones;" Miss Ingram had, and she ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed) trailing Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance—her trail might be clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played: her execution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she talked French apart to her mamma; and she talked it well, with fluency and with a good accent…_  
Jane looked up as she heard someone approach. It was Edward.  
"Would you mind if I joined you?", he inquired.  
She answered in the negative, so his pace quickened. A moment later, he was sitting next to her.  
"Don't mind me", he said as he noticed that she had stopped writing. "I did not mean to discourage you from writing. I will just sit here quietly."  
Jane chuckled, she knew that was utterly impossible. Yet she, once again, turned her attention to her book. It took but a few minutes until she noticed how he was tilting his head in order to read her notes. She felt observed. It made it difficult for her to concentrate.  
_And where is Mr. Rochester?  
He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes of the purse I am forming—I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap…_  
"I thought you were going to just sit there quietly", Jane taunted.  
"I am", Edward rejoined, resuming his former position. As she continued writing he eyed her closely, examined her with desiring eyes.  
_…whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. _  
Edward tilted his head once again and read.  
_How near had I approached him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to change his and my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we were! So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the ladies._  
"In fact", he commented with a smile on his face. "I looked at you all the time."  
Jane stopped and glanced at her husband.  
"No you didn't. You looked at _her_ all the time."  
Rochester's smile was gone in an instant.  
"That is not true, Jane. You were the one who was busy reading to Adèle. The one who retreated into her chamber as soon as possible, preferably without being seen and without ever talking to me. The one who kept her eyes fixed on the floor, or the wall—on anything but me. While I was desperately trying to attract your attention with silly games and tedious conversations. But I never managed to make you focus your eyes on me. You made me love you without looking at me."  
Jane reflected on his words. But it could not be true. She had been there in the drawing-room. She had observed him constantly. Never had he so much as glanced at her. She was sure about that.  
"No", she concluded. "I would have noticed that. I would have caught your look. At least once."  
A faint splash directed their attention to the piece of paper in Jane's hand. A raindrop rested on it and threatened to smudge the notes. Another raindrop followed and yet another one. Quickly, she pressed the precious text against her breast and jumped up.  
"It's beginning to rain", she cried. "We better get back home."  
Edward, who could run faster than his wife, overtook her, shouting: "I will run to the carriage and wake George, so we can set off immediately."

It rained heavily for the rest of that day. The following days, however, continued as clear and calm as could be and so they set out every day for a picnic. And although they did not always stay long enough for Jane to work on her autobiography, she managed to retreat to a quiet place at least on some days to carry her story forward. It was on the 5th day of Adèle's and Baily's visit that the two decided to spend the day in town. After much begging and pleading, the children were allowed to accompany them. Edward and Jane agreed that they would, nevertheless, have a picnic. They let George take them to the same meadow they had used for this purpose the preceding days and then ordered him to return to Gavelkind for (having not much to carry since they were alone today) they intended to walk back home. This time they spread the blanket on the ground under the tree right away. They sat down side by side with their backs against the huge tree and talked about Baily while eating. But the subject was exhausted ere they had finished. So, when Rochester put away the piece of cake intended for him, declaring that he could not eat so much as a berry without bursting at the seams, it was time for another subject.  
"What a wonderful place this is", he remarked.  
Jane nodded in agreement.  
"And it is so quiet without the children", she added. "You can even hear the birds in the tree, since they have not fled."  
Her husband laughed.  
"Are you going to write today?", he asked.  
Jane shook her head. "No. I did not bring my notes. No writing today."  
"But you have not finished the book, yet. Have you, Jane?"  
She shook her head again.  
"No. I last wrote about how I asked for leave of absence to see aunt Reed."  
Edward showed no reaction.  
"You were playing billiards with Blanche Ingram."  
"I know", he said fiercely. The change in mood seemed odd. And then, in a somewhat calmer voice he continued: "I know what I was doing." He paused. "You mention Blanche a lot. Too much, I daresay."  
Jane turned her head towards him.  
"Well, you took good care that I would see the two of you together as much as possible. And you were quite close, too. You were constantly flirting with her."  
She looked straight ahead now.  
"I am astonished that you did not marry her", she joked.  
Rochester, whose face had darkened at this suggestion, turned to Jane.  
"You know I did not want anyone but you. And you are still the only one I want. And always will be."  
He lifted his hand, placed it at her cheek and smiled.  
"Because of this impartial look you have always given me."  
He kissed her eyes.  
"And because of that beautiful neck of yours that renders any necklace in the world useless."  
He kissed her neck.  
"And because of that shy smile that flashes over your lips when you glance at certain parts of my body and think I don't notice it."  
"You…?", she just stumbled and flushed.  
He kissed her mouth.  
She kissed back, rose to her knees and pushed him towards the trunk of the tree. He drew her close to him, made her sit on his lap. She felt his desire. She enjoyed having this effect on him. But it made her wish for more. She wanted to feel him closer. She began unbuttoning his vest, then his shirt, then his trousers.  
She let her own desire guide her actions until Edward had completely surrendered to her. For Jane, the world ceased to exist. She did not hear the birds in the tree anymore, did not smell the flowers that blossomed around them. She only felt Edward's breath caress her neck, his fingers roam across her back (gently at first, then more demanding), felt the harmony of their movements take her breath away.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: In Vino Veritas**

Merry days were these at Gavelkind. After another thought-provoking conversation with his wife, Rochester sat down often with Baily and got to know him better. He could not have been more mistaken regarding his impression of the young man. One day, when they were sitting in the parlour, drinking wine and smoking cigars, Baily told him about how he had first met Adèle. He said he had been on his way home from Smithfield Market. He had seen her sitting on a stone by the side of the road. "She looked like an angel with broken wings", Baily declared and then went on about how her carriage had broken down. A wheel had broken off and the carriage had careered off the road. The driver had gone for help and so she had been sitting there waiting for him to come back. Baily had stayed with her because it had been late afternoon. The driver should have been back by now, she had told him anxiously. Little had they known that the driver had had yet another accident with the carriage horse he had taken. Due to the accident with the carriage, the horse had an injured leg. It had stumbled and fallen. The driver, whose head had hit a stone, was lying bleeding somewhere between the place of the first accident and London. "An hour went by", Baily recalled. "Before we set out to London ourselves. We rode on my horse and found the driver by the side of the road. Fortunately, he was still alive, though badly injured." According to Baily, they had waited another 20 minutes till a carriage had passed that could take both, the driver and Adèle, to London while he himself rode off in the opposite direction. Not, however, without making her promise that she would allow him to come and see her the next day, to make sure that she herself and the driver were well.  
"So you are a kind-hearted man", Rochester concluded, taking a sip of wine and letting it sit in his mouth for a second.  
Baily shrugged his shoulders.  
"I only did what I thought was right. And I'm glad I did. Because otherwise I would have never found out what a wonderful person your daughter is."  
Rochester frowned but, though the thought immediately crossed his mind, did not correct Baily. The young man continued.  
"She must have had the best of teacher's, an inspiring example of honesty, integrity, and all that is good."  
Rochester exhaled cigar smoke, then smiled cryptically.  
"Indeed, Mr. Baily. Indeed."  
They did not speak any more on that subject. Rochester felt it was Adèle's responsibility, not his, to explain the family's situation.

Adèle and Baily stayed more than a fortnight during which, due to the fact that Adèle spent much time with the children, Jane made good progress with her autobiography. When she wasn't writing, Jane and Adèle mostly spoke of the young woman's upcoming wedding and conversed about things like the wedding dress and bridal bouquet. The men, then, took flight and went hunting or fishing. Baily quickly learned how to help when Rochester needed help with a gun or a fishing rod. It was only a matter of time before Rochester gave his consent to the marriage of Baily and Adèle. Jane just smiled knowingly when her husband finally announced that he thought the two were a good match. It was agreed upon that the wedding should take place in September.  
It was one day after the young couple's departure, that Jane sat on a bench in the park, working on her book. Around her everything blossomed. She felt like she was in a fairy garden. She took a deep breath of fresh air. Everything was just perfect. Almost too perfect. Jane was currently trying to recall what kind of tree it was that had been struck by lightning shortly after the proposal, when Edward came to sit next to her. She passed the question on to him.  
"It was the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard", he remembered. "It happened the night after I had offered you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions."  
Jane smiled as she remembered his words. It must have been the most romantic proposal of all time, she thought.  
"You asked me", she added. "to pass through life at your side—to be your second self, and best earthly companion." She paused. "A very eloquent speech, Edward. Was it prepared or did you improvise?"  
He raised an eyebrow.  
"Well…", he began but was interrupted by George who was approaching them.  
"The post has just come in. You wished to be notified when there is another of these letters, sir." He paused. "Well there is."  
Rochester jumped up and was gone in an instant.  
George, after casting a short but somewhat commiserating glance at Jane, followed his master. Jane now remembered the day Adèle and Baily had arrived. She remembered that a similar scene had taken place in the drawing-room. She had not given it a second thought. It was only now that she realized how strange her husband's reaction had been then. What could it mean? What letters were these he received? Her mind raced but formed no answer. She had nothing but these two instants to point her to the solution. The best idea, she concluded, was to just ask him about it.  
And so she did at the dinner table.  
"Letters?", Rochester replied surprised, though she could see in his face that he knew what she was talking about. He was an open book to her. At least, normally he was. But right now his expression changed to something she did not quite know how to interpret. He looked uneasy, but then there was also this curious flash of another emotion in his eyes. An emotion of which she wasn't sure if it was only distress or rather alarm.  
"Yes well, you know. These letters George keeps informing you about. There must have been at least two by now."  
"Oh", he said, his expression brightening. "Those letters. Ah well, I did not want you to worry about them. It is a matter of business. Do not bother your head about it, my dear. It will be resolved soon."  
His voice was calm and reassuring.  
Jane was relieved. Business, of course. The thought had not even crossed her mind. She thought herself very foolish for having even mentioned this. Edward often had problems to solve considering mortgages or shares. And he was usually very upset about these things.  
"By the by", Rochester remarked. "There was also a letter from Baily. He asks whether or not we will bring the twins to the wedding in September."  
He drank something before adding: "I think it best to let you decide that. I also think you should answer his letter. He likes you better than me."  
His wife laughed and told him that wasn't true.

Jane was rather busy the following days. One of the twins was taken ill and needed her attention. She wrote in the evenings and slept little. But these were good times nevertheless. Edward surprised her with presents nearly every day. He spent long hours with her and the baby, or went with her for a walk in the park so she could "clear her mind." He also helped her with the book, always read what she had written and helped her remember what had happened during the month of courtship. This time it was Jane who was amazed at the accuracy of her husband's memory and the richness of detail he was able to come up with.

Jane Rochester had enjoyed complete happiness in this world. Not that she did not enjoy happiness now that her husband, once again, showered her with presents and attention. But it did not seem quite right. She did not doubt that he spoke truth when he told her again and again that he "just still loved her as much as ten years ago and desperately felt the urge to prove it to her", yet it was so unlike her Edward to show his affection that way. But all her "You do not have to do this" didn't help. She could not change his mind.  
And so this was yet another of those evenings with them sitting together in that little room Jane liked most to write in. Jane sat at her desk, Edward in the armchair.  
"Why are you not reading to me?", Rochester complained, his dark eyes sparkling with curiosity.  
"Because I am thinking", replied Jane who had been writing quietly for about ten minutes.  
As much as she liked and enjoyed his presence, it made her feel uncomfortable to write about him when he was near. She always felt like it would falsify her description of his past self. He had, after all, changed from a grumpy loner to a…well…grumpy husband and father. She laughed at the absurdity of that thought.  
"What is it?", he inquired.  
"Oh nothing", Jane lied. "I was just remembering that day you sang to me. I knew your intentions. What you wished for was clearly written on your face. But I would not let you have it."  
Rochester wasn't exactly pleased that she made him remember this. He grimaced. Said nothing.  
"I am going to read it to you", continued Jane. "Tell me if it is an accurate account of the situation."  
She began to read.  
_From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then, after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I got up, and saying, "I wish you good-night, sir," in my natural and wonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away._  
Edward suddenly wished from the bottom of his heart that he had not made her read this to him. He was not going to like it. He hated it already, could hardly bear listening to it. Not because it was poorly written, but because it was like a mirror that was held up to him. And he did not like what he saw. He forced himself to keep a straight face. He failed miserably.  
_The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of probation; and with the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was excellently entertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove sensibility, while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his judgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less._  
"Yes, very accurate", he said hastily, looking out the window so she would not see his face.  
Jane did not need to see Edward's face to know that he despised having once been unable to express or, rather, prevented from expressing his love for her the way he would have liked to. It had tormented him then and to remember it tormented him now.  
She read on.  
_In other people's presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any other line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He continued to send for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as "love" and "darling" on his lips: the best words at my service were "provoking puppet," "malicious elf," "sprite," "changeling," &c. For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It was all right: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to anything more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my account vanished; therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr. Rochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened awful vengeance for my present conduct at some period fast coming. I laughed in my sleeve at his menaces. "I can keep you in reasonable check now," I reflected; "and I don't doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised."_  
"It could be more descriptive, don't you think?", she asked.  
"No", he exclaimed. "It is descriptive enough indeed."  
Jane frowned seriously, getting ready for the death blow.  
She thus continued.  
_Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have pleased than teased him. My future husband was becoming to me my whole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol._  
Rochester still had his face averted. But his hand clung to the arm-rest and, thus, revealed his state of mind.  
"You would have rather pleased than teased", he repeated her choice of words in his deepest voice. "Then you were not entirely averse to the idea?"  
He finally turned his head to look at his wife.  
Jane was impressed at how well the wall she had erected around herself during that time had worked. Even now he needed her help to see through it. For a moment she entertained the idea of keeping him in the dark about her wishes at that time. Her yearning for physical contact. How she had desperately longed for intimacy, had spent the nights dreaming of all these things and trudged through the days waiting only for the clock to strike seven so she could at least be near him, alone with him.  
"Of course", she eventually answered his question. "What did you expect? I was a woman. With feelings. Emotions. Desires."  
Rochester smiled slightly.  
"You were 18", he rejoined.  
"Well, still. I was a woman, Edward."  
"I am quite sure you did not have these desires when you first came to Thornfield. And you were 18 then."  
Jane faltered. She could not deny that. It had, she remembered, indeed been only after the fire in Rochester's chamber that these kinds of thoughts had crossed her mind and that her master had dominated her dreams. Extinguishing the fire in his bedroom had sparked a fire in her.

The next day was incredibly dull. It poured like there was no tomorrow which, however, did not prevent the children from being outside. They ran through the rain and played with the mud. Fortunately it was a warm summer rain, so Jane let her children enjoy it. Rochester had left at noon. He had to take care of some business in town. Something he had postponed for days in order to spent time with his wife and children. He could not postpone it any longer, though, and had decided to finally get it over with. Jane thus seized the opportunity to write some letters she had meant to write for a while. The young woman was sitting at her desk with Pilot at her feet and a couple of letters in front of her. She read all of them again before she started answering them one by one. She wrote to Mrs. Fairfax first. The old lady still lived near Millcote where she worked for an old, amiable man. Rochester had found the place for her since she had not wanted to leave —shire. Rochester, on the other hand, had wished to get away from Thornfield as far as possible. He had not wished to hear the gossip, the stories people now told each other about the place and its dreadful master. Edward and Jane had not been back to Thornfield ever since. Jane knew from Mrs. Fairfax that the old hall had not been rebuilt. It was merely a ruin now, a symbol of decadence and misfortune.  
Here, Jane and Rochester had built a whole new life, begun a new chapter.  
When she was done with the letter to Mrs. Fairfax, Jane wrote to Diana and Mary next and, finally, answered Baily's letter. She was just assuring him that they would come to the wedding with all their children, as the door flung open and Eli and Jacob came running in. Pilot whimpered, obviously annoyed at the sudden disruption. Jane greeted each of the boys with a kiss on the forehead.  
"My god, you are dripping wet", she said. "You should rather play inside now."  
"No mama", cried Eli. "Nathan has found an earthworm that is huge. You must come and look at it. We think it is a new species."  
Jane looked out the window. It was still raining heavily.  
"I would rather not go outside", she explained.  
But when she saw the disappointment on her children's faces, she came up with an alternative solution.  
"Why don't you put it in a glass and bring it here?", she suggested.  
The boys exchanged looks, then nodded in unison and before Jane knew what was happening, they were running away again. A few minutes passed before they came back with Nathan who carried the glass with the worm. It was indeed a quite large specimen but she doubted that it was a new species.  
"Does it not look very different from other earthworms, mama?", inquired Jacob proudly.  
She agreed that it was indeed unusually large but also expressed her doubts about it being a new species.  
Again the boys were disappointed. Jane was annoyed at herself. Their father would have been good at this. He always managed to get them interested in all kinds of things, no matter how ordinary they actually were. So she asked herself what he would do.  
"Ah I know", she suddenly exclaimed. "Why don't we find out what kind of earthworm it is? It might be a foreign species at least."  
The children's faces brightened up.  
"Wait here", she ordered them as she rose from the chair. "I will go get the book about worms and insects."  
As nobody objected, Jane left them, walked down the gallery and entered the library.  
The library was quite impressive with shelves that reached to the ceiling. All of them were full of books. The fire at Thornfield had not reached the part of the hall the library had been in. So they still had all of the old books. One of these books, she thought immediately when she stepped into the room, was the one she had brought with her from Gateshead. She thought about looking at that book right now but dismissed the idea and, instead, headed for the shelf that contained Rochester's books on animals. She was sure she had seen the one on worms and insects here just recently. Yet, she could not find it. She checked the adjacent shelves first before she returned to the first one and noticed that a book was missing. "Edward must have taken it out", she though to herself. It was probably in his study. She thus left the library and went on to her husband's study. She seldom if ever entered his study. If Jane had learned one thing during her time as his governess, it was that Edward Fairfax Rochester did not like to be disturbed when he was working. And what else but her husband would have drawn her into this room?  
The study was maybe half as big as the library. A large rug covered the floor with geometric shapes in dark colours. Pictures that had been painted by Jane herself decorated the walls. Most of them depicted local landscapes, one of them was a portrait of their four eldest children. There were no maps or globes in the room. No carvings or other items from foreign countries. Nothing alluded to the fact that the master of this house had once travelled the world. Facing the window stood a mahogany desk covered with pens, sheets of paper, books etc. A longcase clock struck two as Jane approached the desk. There was an empty bottle and an almost empty glass of red wine standing amidst the organized chaos on the desk. Jane smirked and began looking at the books in search of the one about worms. It did not take her long to find it. It was, of course, the one at the bottom of the pile. Jane lifted the other books up and put them aside, then reached for the book she had come here for. Since she was, at the same time, already turning to go, she accidentally knocked over the glass of wine. It's contents spilled over the table. Jane cursed at her own clumsiness. Fortunately, as there had not been much wine left in the glass, only the sheet of paper nearest to it was affected. She reached for the handkerchief that she always kept in her pocket ever since she was a mother. One just always needed a handkerchief when dealing with children.  
It was useless, the wine had left a highly visible stain on the sheet of paper. A short glance told her that it was a rather short letter. Edward would not be amused. She just hoped it was nothing important. She did not wish to read it. She would not go so far as to rummage through his things. After all, she would not want him to do that with her things. Not because she had anything to hide but because it showed that they respected each other's privacy. Yet, involuntarily, her eyes caught the name that the letter had been signed with. She was startled. Instantly, a thousand thoughts rushed through her head, none of which seemed to make any sense. She suddenly felt dizzy. Her look was fixed on the name. Could it be true? Maybe she was mistaken. She took the letter and turned it around to read the sender's name on the back of it. It was the same name. Maybe, she thought, this was just another person who happened to have the same name. After all, the surname differed. There was only one way to find out, though: She had to read the letter. But no, she could not do that. Jane struggled. She knew it was wrong to read the letter and she even feared its' contents. But she just had to know. She would not be able to get the letter out of her mind now and how would she be able to face Edward when he came back? With these ideas swirling around in her head.  
She began to read.

_Burrows Hall, 24th June._

My dearest Edward,

I perfectly understand that an illegitimate child would damage a man in your situation, especially a man with your history. Therefore I can easily conceive your reluctance to acknowledge Henry.  
Yet, I must continue to insist on my wish and hereby repeat my entreaty which I have explained in my previous letter. I see no use in continuing our discussion in writing and would much rather resolve the situation in person. I deeply regret that you still refuse to visit Burrows Hall and decline the opportunity of meeting Henry. I assure you, he is the most talented boy I have ever seen, with the most beautiful black hair. However, by a fortunate coincidence, I am going to spend a few weeks in —shire next month. That is, as I understand, where you and your little wife live now. I thus consider it justified to visit you during that time. I am perfectly sure that we shall be able to come to an agreement.

Yours ever,  
Blanche Notham

As Jane read the letter, it was as if her heart had stopped beating. Everything around her began spinning, she had great difficulties to make sense of the words that were before her eyes. The dizziness she had felt upon reading the name "Blanche" worsened. The young woman seated herself on the desk chair for fear of fainting. Whatever she had expected, this exceeded her wildest imaginations. She had to think. The letter had been written this month. So Blanche's visit was going to take place some time next month. Also, another letter had been mentioned in this one. She had to find it. She did not think about what was right or wrong anymore. Her head ached, her heart burned with agony. She wished to, no, she had to know it all. She looked around but there was no other letter on the desk. Only books, notes, an old contract etc. She opened the desk drawer. And indeed, there it was. In fact, she discovered two more letters from Blanche Notham. The first one had been sent in May while the second one was dated 5th June – the day Adèle and Baily had arrived. She decided to read them in chronological order and, thus, started with the first letter.

_Dearest Edward,_

I am writing to you because I have come to know that you have been very successful, financially and personally. I am very pleased to hear that you have recovered from the injuries you received in the fire at Thornfield and can lead a nearly normal life. This, at least, is what I have been told recently. Being familiar with your strength and eagerness, I have no doubt that it is the truth. I have therefore decided to speak to you about a personal issue. This I would rather do in person. I thus invite you to Burrows Hall where I shall explain to you the entire situation.

Yours sincerely,  
Blanche Notham

This letter was easier to bare. It did not answer any of the questions that Jane had in mind, though. Rather, it brought up new questions. Why Notham? Was this really the woman Jane knew as Blanche Ingram? What did she want from Edward? Why the devil did she call him dearest Edward? And what about the illegitimate child? Impatiently, Jane took the second letter, hoping that it would answer at least some of these questions.

_My dearest Edward,_

I am very happy for you. It all sounds like you have a wonderful family and a wonderful home. I must confess, though, that I am very disappointed and sad that you cannot come to see me. The issue I must talk to you about is indeed very important and I would rather speak to you about it in person, as I am sure you will come to understand once you have read this letter in which I will now try to define my position.  
As you might have heard, I have been married to Mr. Notham of Burrows Hall for six years now. My husband is a highly esteemed and respected man with a considerable fortune. Mr. Notham and I have no children but my son Henry who is to be ten next January. I say my son because my husband, indeed, is not the father of the child. And this is precisely why I urge you to come and talk to me, for Henry can and will not be my husband's heir especially, as I am pregnant right now with his own flesh and blood. You will, by the by, be relieved to hear that I have kept it secret as to who the father really is. To this day, there are only two people in the world who know the answer to this question. Everyone else thinks I saved the poor thing when it was left to die on a field by its mother.

Yours ever,  
Blanche Notham

Jane sat, with bated breath, staring at the letter in her hand. She could not believe it. It could not be true. But then again, she had left Thornfield Hall to see Mrs. Reed when Rochester's guests had stayed with him. That had happened in summer eleven years ago. The boy was to be ten next January, meaning Blanche must have gotten pregnant in summer eleven years ago. Rochester had never told Jane what had been going on during her absence. They had always just talked about her experience at Gateshead. It was possible after all, that he was the child's father. She sat and pondered for a few more minutes until she realized that she was still holding the book about worms in her left hand.  
"The children", she exclaimed, left the book on the desk and jumped up. She tried hard to push aside all the information she had just gained in order to appear normal before her children. But already in the gallery she realized that she would not be able to. She felt sick and numb. So she just went inside the room where her boys where standing next to the desk just like she had left them.  
"Did you find the book?", one of them inquired immediately.  
"Why did it take so long?", asked another.  
Jane felt tears rising to her eyes but managed to fight them. She was unable to force a smile, though.  
"Go to the nursery!", she ordered them.  
"But mama, what about the worm?", Nathan wanted to know.  
"It is only a worm, nothing special", Jane replied harshly. "Now go and leave me alone!"  
They obeyed, and trotted away sadly. Jane was, once again, alone. Only that this time she actually felt lonely. Very much so indeed. She threw a glance at the clock on the wall. There was still much time left until Mr. Rochester would return. She put away the letters she had been writing, got her notes out of the drawer and composed herself to work on her autobiography. She tried hard to concentrate but her mind kept drifting.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune**

Edward Fairfax Rochester was in high spirits. All of the business had been taken care of and it had not taken as long as he had expected. And so, he smiled contentedly as he climbed out of the carriage into the pouring rain. The rain did not disturb him. In fact, he felt like nothing could diminish his good mood right now.  
"Thank you George", he said to the driver. "The carriage will not be needed anymore today."  
George nodded and drove off. Rochester marched through the mud just as stubborn as the horses, anxious for a fire and a cup of tea. His wife was probably already waiting for him in the library, or the drawing-room, or the parlour. With that ever so caring look on her face and a book in her hands. His pace quickened as he hurried up the stairs and through the front door. Inside, he rang for Mary to put away the hat and coat he had taken off. The smile persisted.  
"I take it you were successful, sir?", she inquired.  
"I was", he just said in a happy tone. He then hastened on to the library only to find it was empty. He shrugged and continued his search for Jane. She was not in the drawing-room either and even the parlour was vacant. Then, he thought, she was probably upstairs with the children. He just wanted to leave the room when his gaze fell upon the desk. He crossed the room. Jane had obviously been writing. Several pages lay on the desk. She must have been here not so long ago for she never left her notes lying about like that. It seemed she was going to come back soon to continue writing. But something else attracted Edward's attention. It almost looked like she had left the notes there intentionally. Edward bent over so he could read them. These pages were, as he had expected, to be part of her autobiography. Jane described how she had gotten dressed for the wedding, how he had rushed her to the church and how the ceremony had begun. Rochester felt uneasy reading her account of the event. But his interest in learning about her perspective on it was stronger.  
_"I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful."  
He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?"—when a distinct and near voice said—  
"The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment."  
The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet…_  
The exact same feeling overcame him now. For a second he was afraid to tumble. But, taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he forced himself to proceed. The reader then learned about the lunatic, the beast, the wife he had kept in the attic. To Edward himself it all seemed like a vague dream, it sounded like somebody else's story. The story of a man he hated with all his might, with every fiber of his being. A man who had done things that Edward could barely imagine now. A man, driven by a despair that Edward could hardly remember. His hopes of learning about Jane's point of view, however, seemed in vain. The whole scene was retold exactly as it had happened. Not a single word about her feelings or thoughts. It appeared almost as if Jane herself had only been a spectator not involved in the occurrences. Edward was not sure whether he regretted or appreciated that fact. Until, eventually, he got to the part where she did write about her feelings and thoughts.  
_I was in my own room as usual—just myself, without obvious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?—where was her life?—where were her prospects?  
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman—almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead—struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love: that feeling which was my master's—which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms—it could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted—confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I had thought him._  
Edward shuddered at these words as a cold shiver ran down his spine. He tried hard not to imagine the author's voice while being presented with this glimpse into her innermost soul. If only he were able to erase these memories from their minds. He fixed his eyes on the paper again.  
_I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must go: that I perceived well. When—how—whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind had been my eyes! How weak my conduct!  
My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within me—a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to express them—  
"Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help."  
It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it—as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips—it came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, "the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me."_  
Edward closed his eyes. Jane's words threatened to strangle him. It amazed and, at the same time, terrified him how she could write about happy times one day and then be able to describe such torturous feelings in such detail the very next. All of a sudden, he felt a desperate urge to be with his wife, to hold her in his arms, to kiss her and be there for her. Still distraught from what he had just read, Rochester stumbled out of the room and came upon Mary in the hall.  
"Mary, where is Mrs. Rochester?", he asked the servant. The smile had long gone.  
"Oh, madam went upstairs about 15 minutes ago. She had wished that a bath would be prepared for her. I suppose she is having a bath right now, then."  
"Very well", replied the master and hurried up the stairs.

The warm water comforted her skin and her soul. As Jane lay in the bathtub, with her eyes closed, she did not feel angry. Not anymore. She had gotten the load off her mind through writing and now felt like she had the ability and strength to face Edward. But, although it appeared as if she was, Jane was not at ease. Because she expected him to have read what she had most recently written when she next saw him and because she probably knew him better than he knew himself, Jane both wished and feared to see her husband. She listened to the sound of the rain pattering against the window. It had a mesmerising effect on her. She breathed steadily and slowly. After a while another sound intermingled with the pattering of the rain. She heard steps. Somebody was coming up the stairs. A few more moments elapsed before she heard the door being opened and closed again. Then, it was locked. Jane forced herself to keep her eyes closed. She knew who it was without looking at the intruder. She lay still, like a mouse afraid to be discovered by a predator. The surface of the water rose and fell in accordance with her breast. She heard him come to the side of the bathtub and kneel down.  
"I am sorry", she heard Edward whisper. His voice sounded strange, almost desperate. She dared not move.  
The tranquillity of the water was disturbed when Rochester's hand broke through the surface. Jane flinched as he touched bare skin. His hand lingered on her lower leg for a moment. He then slowly moved it up to her thigh.  
"I am sorry, Janet", he repeated, moving his hand further up her leg. A warm wave passed through her body. She would not allow the feeling to last. In a moment, Jane had risen and stood upright in the tub.  
"Hand me my gown if you please", she addressed Edward who looked earnestly confused. Yet, he complied with her request. She thus stepped out of the water and put on the gown. At first, Edward observed her with the most admiring look. But his glance grew so steady, so determined, it seemed he was trying to take possession of her with his eyes.  
"Forgive me", he said in a voice so gentle that it contradicted his expression completely. She was now sure that he had, indeed, read the most recent chapter of her book.  
She forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy in his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole look and mien—she forgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at her heart's core.  
As if he had read her mind, he closed his eyes and kissed her at once.  
Jane drew back but he followed, kissed her again and again—ever more passionately. He was so absorbed in kissing her that he did not seem to notice how Jane backed off.  
She reached the wall.

***

Edward craved her forgiveness, his desire for her love seemed to overpower him. It was like an addiction. He was addicted to her love. And she was about to snatch it from him, he was sure about that. But he would not let that happen. Edward could not live without her affection, he needed it like an alcoholic needs his wine. All he had to do was to prove his love to her, show her how much he needed her and persuade her that she needed him just as much. As if an unruly power had taken over control, he could not stop kissing her. It was not exactly like he could not have regained control had he tried, but he was not sure he wanted to. Every kiss, every touch fed his desire and increased his hunger for her affection. His anticipation grew stronger and stronger as he undid his breeches. A solemn passion was conceived in his heart; it leaned to her, drew her to his centre and spring of life, wrapped his existence about her, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fused Jane and him in one.

***

Jane gasped. She did not object. She did not reject her husband. She loved him still, had always loved him. She could not unlove him now. But while her eyes were open, her heart was closed. Motionless, she watched his face. It was the face she loved so dearly. Yet, it was not. A frantic look concealed Edward's usual features. She recognized that expression. It was the expression of a man, a beast almost, that she had met before and which she had believed to have died in that destructive fire at Thornfield, ten years ago. But she was not afraid. She knew that one word from her could cage that beast. Yet, she said nothing. She did not wish to. Instead, Jane reacted mechanically. After all, she still loved him violently. As violently as he was loving her right now. She willingly endured his actions. Yet, she only endured them. She did not perceive them. All she felt was the cold wall against her back, all she heard was the rain falling, and all she smelled was the soap she had used. She perceived everything but him.

***

Edward was ecstatic. He was completely lost in the moment. He did not pay attention to anything but the feeling that burned in him until he finally opened his eyes and, as if a gun had been pointed at him, instantly let go of his wife. He stepped back, looking at her in disbelief. Unutterable anguish was written in his features as his lips formed words that his voice failed to produce.  
"J-Jane", he finally stammered. „What is the matter?"  
She stood mute. Her body tense. No emotion found its way to her face. What tormented him most was that she did not show the slightest sign of pleasure.  
"Did I hurt you?" He inquired, his voice quivering with emotion. He dreaded the answer.

***

Jane slowly tied her gown as she looked down at the ground. No, she was not hurt. He could never hurt her with his love. At least not physically. Her pain was deeper than that. It penetrated her soul. It tore every memory they shared to shreds. And that was exactly why she did not allow any emotion or feeling to emerge. What good would it do? It would be a lie. She knew now that all of it had only been a farce. There was no use in making more of these false memories. They would only devour her, mislead her. And nobody but her was to have control over her feelings. She was her own mistress.  
"I found Blanche's letters", said Jane in a tone as emotionless and indifferent as the look on her face.

***

Edward felt his knees weaken as his hands began to tremble accordingly. His mind went blank. He turned pale and distant, as time seemed to freeze. A million possible answers came to his mind but none seemed to suffice.  
"Jane, let me exp…", he said, reaching out for her, but his wife cut him off.  
"Don't", she said, her face glowing with disappointment. A single tear broke free and blazed a trail down her cheek for others to follow. But ere that storm could break loose, she averted her gaze and walked off.  
An invisible burden suddenly seemed to weigh him down. As the door fell shut, Rochester's knees gave in.

The next time they saw each other was at dinner. Jane sat at one end of the table while Edward occupied the other end. Their children were seated between them at the sides of the table. A gloomy atmosphere pervaded the room as all of them ate in silence. The children because they sensed the tension between their parents; Rochester because he was ashamed of and disgusted with himself—his past self which he hated more than words could express, had come back and now threatened to ruin his existence a third time; and Jane because she knew that talking would stir up feelings that she did not want to become acquainted with. Feeling anything just seemed wrong. Any feeling would be irrational, it would only cloud her mind and, thus, had no place in her life right now. She was determined not to suffer, she would not give him that satisfaction. During the appetiser, Jane entertained the idea of leaving him again so she would not have to be reminded of her own naivety. Mrs. Fairfax had been right. How could she have expected a man like Rochester to be content with a woman like her, Jane Eyre, his governess. If she left, he could be happy with whoever suited him better, without her being in his way.  
By the time the main course was brought in, however, Jane had changed her mind. For the sake of her children she had to stay. After all, she would not be able to take them with her, that was impossible. On the other hand, leaving them behind was out of the question, as well. Her children would, by no means, have to grow up without a mother. They were not to share her fate. So what was left was to stay. And if it meant for her to become an automaton in order to bear the life as Edward's second self, she would become one. If it meant that she had to be ice and rock to him, then, ice and rock she would accordingly become.  
As she lifted her eyes from her plate, Jane noticed that her daughter had problems with the meat and bent over to cut it into small pieces for her.  
Rochester, who always enjoyed observing Jane's motherly behaviour, wished to watch her now but he dared not look up. He feared to meet her glance. He would not be able to look her in the eye. Dinner went by without anyone saying anything. Not a single look had been exchanged between husband and wife. Rochester could not bear the silence a second longer. It felt so unnatural that it tore him apart. He had to say something—anything.  
"Jane", he finally ventured to pronounce her name—a name so sweet and familiar and forever linked with his. But unable to think of anything else to say, he fell silent again.  
She looked up. Their eyes met. A moment of deep remorse captivated them both.  
"Yes, Mr. Rochester?", she replied as formally and polite as she had last done ten years ago.  
Edward averted his face as if she had spat at him. Her response stopped him cold.  
Charlotte, however, looked up at her mother and, with that innocent look that only children can have, asked: "Mama, why are you calling papa Mr. Rochester?"  
Jane gave her daughter a most tender smile.  
"Because that is his name, my dear", she answered.  
"But", Eli added. "You never call him that."  
The young mother took a deep breath. How should she explain the situation to her children? Why _did_ she call him Mr. Rochester? She looked at her husband. Their eyes met once again. Rochester looked anxious. He, too, seemed to ponder what possible answer she would come up with. As seconds slipped away with her not saying anything, his expression became firmer until, eventually, his eyes seemed to challenge her. The children, with their eyes fixed on their mother, were still waiting for an explanation. Jane did not wish to lie to them, yet, she could not tell them what had happened.  
"He asked for it", she said distinctly and much to the disgust of her husband, who coughed as he choked on his water.  
"Jane!", he gasped, gazing at her in bewilderment. A low, guttural sound demonstrated his resentment.  
Jane ignored both masterfully and, a moment later, was appalled by the feeling of satisfaction it gave her. She hoped imploringly the children would not make further inquiries. But it was in vain. Eli was just preparing the next question. This time, however, he was going to address his father.  
"Why did you ask mama to call you Mr. Rochester?", the ingenuous child's voice asked, whereupon Rochester forcefully put his glass down and snapped: "I did _not_!"  
Jane noticed how he struggled to stay calm. Immediately, she was on her guard. He had never raised a hand against his children, nor yelled at them. Being the loving father that he was she did not expect him to. Then again, his nerves had not been strained like this since they had had children.  
"Stop asking all these questions and go to bed, already", Edward ordered in a hoarse voice. "Your mother and I must talk."  
Without saying a word, Eli slid off the chair and strolled towards the large door. His siblings watched him.  
"What are you waiting for?", Rochester addressed Nathan, Jacob and Charlotte. "You too. Off to bed!"  
They obeyed.  
As soon as they had left, Jane began piling the plates.  
"That was not necessary", she said and rose. "We have nothing to talk about."

That night she dreamt she went to Thornfield again.  
All of it was still there. No fire had raged here. It was summer. The trees and the meadows were as green as the sky was blue. She saw Edward playing with a child on the lawn in front of the manor. Like a spirit she floated above the scene. She could see them but she could not hear them. It was a boy with black curly hair that her husband was playing with. Although she could not see the boy's face, she realized he looked nothing like one of their children. He was older and taller. He stumbled and fell, but Edward was there to help him up instantly. They both laughed. Suddenly, they turned around, like someone had called for them. Jane's transparent eye searched for the potential caller. She spotted a woman crossing the little bridge she herself had crossed so many times. The woman waved and then hastened over the bridge just to be received in Edward's arms. She first embraced him, then the boy. Now Jane recognized the woman. It was Blanche and she looked as young and pretty as ever. Jane got angry. She wished Edward would look up to her, just for a moment. But he never took his eyes off Blanche. Then, she kissed him. Jane was seething with contempt. She had to stop them. But how? She tried to reach out for Edward. She touched something—something solid. Glass. It was only now that she realized she was not floating. She was standing behind a window in one of the upper storeys. A terrible assumption imposed itself on her and became an awful certainty as she turned around. She knew this room. She knew where she was. She was in the attic. But no watcher was there to look after her. No nurse was there to care for her. She was alone. Where were his arms to confine her? Why was he not here to receive her in an embrace as fond as it was restrictive? Where was his untiring tenderness, his unweary gaze? Hot tears rose to her eyes which burned like fire. She had to flee. She ran to the door, tried to open it but it would not move. She tried again and again but it was locked. Desperately, Jane threw herself against the wood but her efforts were futile. She stumbled back to the window. Her shoulder ached from the attempt to break out. She looked through the window again. All three of them were now looking up to her and they were all laughing. Edward got something out of his pocket and held it up for her to see. It was the key.

The rain had ceased overnight. The trees were now damp, the ground muddy and the sky covered with clouds. Jane felt confined when she looked up at it. Blue sky was something she associated with infinity and liberty and it made her feel small and unimportant to look up at a blue sky. But a clouded sky was like a barrier, a fence that enclosed the world and turned its inhabitants into prisoners. However, that was not what bothered her. Jane was a person who could be content even when she was short of space. She could be bounded in a nutshell, and count herself a queen of infinite space, were it not that she had bad dreams. All night long she had dreamed of being locked up in the attic at Thornfield. All night long she had had to watch Edward and his new family laugh and play. The feeling this experience had evoked, was still there and prevailed over all other feelings. No matter how hard she tried, she could not get it out of her head. Maybe writing would produce relief. She knew Edward was sitting in his parlour, studying—rather than reading—the paper. Her very own parlour was right next to his. In fact, the two rooms were joined by a door. She would, of course, use the second door through which one could enter the room from the hall. Jane had not seen nor talked to her husband all day and she had no intention whatsoever to change this circumstance.  
The young woman walked through the hall and quickly passed the door to Edward's parlour when she reached it. She made sure not to look into the room, as the door stood open. She was afraid he could see her and feel the need to talk to her. But what was the use of talking? It was all just empty words filled with delusion. Promises that had already been broken by the time they were made. No! It was easier not to talk, and it was easier to just exist instead of living. Yes! That was her plan, her future: an existence in silence.  
Jane had reached her parlour and was now sitting at her desk. The sheets of paper she had worked on yesterday still lay there. It was the part that had upset Edward so much. The wedding that never was. She took a blank sheet and commenced writing a new chapter.

_Chapter XXVII_

_Some time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked, "What am I to do?"  
But the answer my mind gave—"Be strong and endure the pain"—was so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears._  
She paused and read what she had written. Then she shook her head, crumpled up the piece of paper and started over.

_Chapter XXVII_

_Some time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked, "What am I to do?"  
But the answer my mind gave—"Leave Thornfield at once"—was so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears. I said I could not bear such words now. "That I am not Edward Rochester's bride is the least part of my woe," I alleged: "that I have wakened out of most glorious dreams, and found them all void and vain, is a horror I could bear and master; but that I must leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is intolerable. I cannot do it."  
But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it and foretold that I should do it. I wrestled with my own resolution: I wanted to be weak that I might avoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw laid out for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the throat, told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in the slough, and swore that with that arm of iron he would thrust her down to unsounded depths of agony…_  
Jane wrote so much, her fingers hurt. But at least she felt better now. No negative feelings clouded her mind anymore. She felt light as a feather. Thus refreshed, she rose, took the pile that constituted her most recent chapter and walked through the door that joined her parlour with Edward's. He was still sitting in his chair, reading the paper—or at least he pretended to. A somewhat comforting sight was this to her. Without saying a word, Jane walked over to a low table that was standing near the door to the hall. On it she placed her writings, before quickly disappearing into the hall.

***

Rochester had, indeed, only pretended to read the paper. In fact, he had only used it as a shield behind which he had hidden to watch without being seen. Most of the time, though, there had been nothing to watch and he could only listen. But Rochester thirsted for every little sign of life from Jane. She had been in her parlour most of the day and had obviously, as he with his usual acuteness had predicted, worked on her autobiography. So he had listened carefully. Had paid attention to every susurration, murmur and sigh. The slightest sound that came out of her parlour was music to his ears and therefore gave him the greatest of pleasure, for at the moment this was the closest he could get to Jane. Jane's coming in had surprised him. Her leaving the notes even more so. As soon as she was out of the room, he put away the newspaper and hastened to the table to fetch the notes. He began reading on the way back. This chapter was about their last conversation before she had left Thornfield.  
_…He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this time just before me.  
"Jane! will you hear reason?" (he stooped and approached his lips to my ear); "because, if you won't, I'll try violence." His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him. The present—the passing second of time—was all I had in which to control and restrain him—a movement of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom,—and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him, soothingly—  
"Sit down; I'll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable."_  
Rochester held his breath as he read these words. Had he really threatened violence once? He would never hurt her. Hurting Jane would be like hurting himself. She was part of him, he could never do that. The scene from yesterday, after her bath, shot into his mind.  
"Jane! Jane!", he eyclaimed , in an accent of bitter sadness as he fell into the armchair.  
_…"you don't love me, then? It was only my station, and the rank of my wife, that you valued? Now that you think me disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my touch as if I were some toad or ape."  
These words cut me: yet what could I do or I say? I ought probably to have done or said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, I could not control the wish to drop balm where I had wounded.  
"I _do_ love you," I said, "more than ever: but I must not show or indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it."  
"The last time, Jane! What! do you think you can live with me, and see me daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and distant?"  
"No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see there is but one way: but you will be furious if I mention it."  
"Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping."  
"Mr. Rochester, I must leave you."_  
"Leave?!", he exclaimed. "No!"  
A pulse of pain hit his heart like an arrow piercing his chest. Rochester felt like he had been thrown into the past and left there to die while he had to suffer the same pain over and over again. He waited until the pain had ceased, ere he could continue reading.  
_…Not a human being that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was loved; and him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love and idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty—"Depart!"  
"Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise—'I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.'"  
"Mr. Rochester, I will _not_ be yours."  
Another long silence.  
"Jane!" recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror—for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising—"Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me go another?"  
"I do."  
"Jane" (bending towards and embracing me), "do you mean it now?"  
"I do."  
"And now?" softly kissing my forehead and cheek.  
"I do," extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely._  
"Oh, Jane", Rochester said closing his eyes for a second before he read on.  
_"This is bitter! This—this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me."  
"It would to obey you."_  
Rochester was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped his vitals.  
"Oh Jane!", he uttered again, unbearable grief distorting his voice. But what could he do? Any attempt to appease her had made things even worse. He could do nothing but comply with her unspoken wish to read her writings. So, he finished reading.  
_…Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love._


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Schale des Zornes, Gewichte des Grimms**

This was the situation between them during the weeks that followed. During the day, Jane ate little and spent much time either painting or writing. She painted nothing in particular. Much of it was just a clash of colours or a desolate single-coloured shape on a black background. And she never used a new canvas but always painted over the same canvas. As soon as a painting was done, she destroyed it by covering the canvas with black paint and started from scratch. When she wrote, it was always another part of her autobiography. Every now and then, she would leave a few pages on that table in her husband's parlour for him to read. This was their only way of communication and it was by its nature one-way, which bothered Rochester in particular. He had so much to say but Jane seemed not to be interested in talking or even listening to him. She had become a stranger to him. They shared the same house, they shared the same bed; yet, they were world's apart. She left the room when he entered and entered a room when he left it. She shunned him whenever possible.  
At night, Jane feared to fall asleep. She had two alternating dreams that haunted her. The first one was where she was locked up in the attic while Edward and his new family enjoyed themselves outside. In her second dream, Jane found herself standing on the roof while Thornfield Hall was devoured by flames. She could feel the heat and smell the smoke. She saw Edward rescuing everyone—everyone but her. Jane could not shun her husband at night. They still slept in the same bed. But Rochester would not touch her. Fear and shame ran deep. He still believed he had hurt her that day after the bath.  
There was just one incident where, after a fortnight of abstinence, he did venture to run his fingers through her hair while they were in bed. Rochester was surprised to find that Jane did not turn away. So he kissed her forehead. When there was still no ill reaction, it raised hope that maybe she was ready to listen and to forgive. Or if she could not forgive him, then, he hoped, she would at least listen to him and try to understand. The thought encouraged him. He became more confident. He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand and kissed her lips.

***

Jane opened her mouth to receive his tongue. She kissed back. With all her will, she tried to grant him his rights. She even simulated pleasure, so he would not withdraw in bewilderment again. In her mind's eye, she still saw the insulted look on Edward's face after he had noticed her unwillingness to please him. She was so tortured by a sense of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, she could not control the wish to drop balm where she had wounded. But his kiss tasted bitter to her and his touch felt like needles on her skin. She could not help but imagine that he had kissed Blanche Ingram like this. Touched her the way he was touching her right now.  
Ere he could even fully realize her initial intentions, she thus turned around to face the wall.

***

A sorrowful sigh left Edward's lips. All hopes were squashed in an instant. At first he had thought that Jane would be upset only for a few days. He had thought she would be ready to talk soon. But now he wasn't so sure about that anymore. Yet, what he had to say had to be said. He could not suppress it any longer. It would consume him and finally destroy them both if he did not speak out soon. Therefore, he too turned around so he was facing her back. The fragrance of her hair filled his nostrils. He could feel his heart beat faster as an army of emotions besieged that fortress in his chest. He would have rather said what he had to say while talking to her face to face. But he had no choice.  
"Jane!", he said carefully.  
His wife, however, pretended to have fallen asleep. She did not answer, nor did she react in any other way. But he had expected that. A fortnight ago, it would have thrown him off the track. But he had become calmer since then. He knew it would not help to get angry. And he knew it would have been wrong.  
"I know you are awake", whispered Edward. "I can feel you thinking."  
He just wished he could also read her thoughts.  
Never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable. But what could he do? He could bend her with his finger and thumb: and what good would it do if he bent, if he uptore, if he crushed her? He considered the resolute, wild, free thing defying him, with more than courage—with a stern triumph. Whatever he did with its cage, he could not get at it—the savage, beautiful creature! If he tore, if he rent the slight prison, his outrage would only let the captive loose. Conqueror he might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before he could call himself possessor of its clay dwelling-place. And it was her, spirit—with will and energy, and virtue and purity—that he wanted: not alone her brittle frame. Of herself she could come with soft flight and nestle against his heart, if she would: seized against her will, she would elude the grasp like an essence—she would vanish ere he inhaled her fragrance.  
"Jane please!", his voice gently pleaded. "Tell me you hate me—tease me, vex me; yell at me if you like. But do not ignore me any longer. I cannot live like this. This is living hell. It is like burning alive, Jane. Purgatory would be a blessing compared to this."  
Tears of despair pooled in his eyes and his voice cracked as he continued. "You don't know what you are doing."  
Finally, this provoked a reaction. She moved slightly. As nothing else happened, he almost believed he had just imagined it. But then she spoke. And while hearing her voice—which was a seldom event these days—sent a chill of pleasure down his spine, the words it carried made him shiver with revulsion.  
"I do very well know what I am doing", she said.  
Startled by the firmness of her declaration, he said no more. Edward fell asleep before her. Jane lay awake for hours. And while she knew that anger was not a good judge, this was the time she forged her plans.

When they had guests, she was very formal and polite, played the happy wife and mother. But she only played it. Behind that perfect mask of faked smiles and pretended happiness was a broken woman with no one to turn to, nothing to look forward to, and nowhere to go. It was July by now, the month Blanche would arrive. Every morning when she woke, Jane expected it to be her last day with Edward. She feared that day to come, where Blanche Notham would wrest him from her, because even though she could not live with him anymore, she grieved to leave Edward: she loved Edward:—She loved him, because she had lived with him a full and delightful life,—momentarily at least. She had not been trampled on. She had not been petrified. She had not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. She had talked, face to face, with what she reverenced, with what she delighted in,—with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. She had known him, Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it struck her with terror and anguish to feel she absolutely had to be torn from him for ever. She saw the necessity of departure; and it was like looking on the necessity of death.  
On the 10th of July, a coach arrived at Gavelkind. From her parlour, Jane watched it rolling up the drive. She got a stifling feeling, expecting it to be Blanche's coach. She was relieved to see a man stepping out of the coach. It was Mr. Lovell, he lived about two miles down the road. Although she did not know him very well, Jane was strangely glad to see him. Rochester came out of the house to greet the visitor. He led him inside. Jane nervously walked over to her desk and sat down. She expected Edward to call for her any minute.  
He did. About twenty minutes passed ere George knocked on the door to inform her that she was wanted in the master's parlour. She did not use the door that would have led her right into Edward's parlour, rather, she walked out into the hall and then into the other room.  
Edward and the visitor were discussing some kind of business, as far as Jane could tell. She heard Rochester say "I am sorry but I will not sell", as she entered.  
Lovell was maybe 50 years of age, with grey hair and sideburns. He looked well-kept but somewhat rough. When the men noticed her, they dropped their conversation. Edward smiled at his wife whereupon she quickly put on her mask.  
"Ah, there she is", Rochester commented. "My lovely wife."  
Lovell rose to greet her briefly, before he seated himself again.  
Jane took a seat next to Edward, taking care she was not sitting too close by, yet not trying to appear like she was distancing herself from him.  
"This is a wonderful place", said Lovell. "Your husband and I have just talked about how beautiful it is."  
"Oh", replied Jane faking a smile. "Yes it is beautiful indeed. We love to live here. As do our children. We could not be happier."  
"Really?", rejoined Lovell. "I think Gavelkind would be perfect as a school."  
"See Mr. Lovell", Rochester said. "There is a school right down the road. We really do not need yet another school. And there is no use in discussing it because I will not sell anyway."  
Lovell frowned. A moment of embarrassed silence followed.  
"Well", the visitor eventually changed the subject. „Have you met Miss Ashberry, yet?"  
Both, Mr. and Mrs. Rochester looked puzzled.  
"Ashberry?", repeated Edward. "I have never heard of a Miss Ashberry. Who is she?"  
Lovell smiled, obviously glad he knew something they did not.  
"You should go to town more often", he remarked. „People are talking about nothing else."  
"You mean they are gossiping", Jane interjected coolly.  
Lovell shrugged. "Well, you might call it gossiping I assume. Anyway, she is to move into Sutherfield with her daughter."  
Neither Edward nor Jane showed any reaction.  
"Oh,", the guest thus continued. "You don't know about _that_ either, I suppose."  
They did not.  
"About what?", asked Edward.  
"There is no father to that child. I mean, nobody knows who the father is. Miss Ashberry is a woman who has known many men, if you know what I mean."  
Another pause.  
"All these poor men", Lovell went on, rather thinking aloud than actually talking to the Rochesters. "It is customary to argue, that the punishment of seduction cannot be apportioned in any but the present manner, namely, wholly to the female, unless where illegitimate offspring result from it, in which case the State imposes a fine of two shillings and sixpence per week upon the father. The grounds on which the legislature have decreed this state of the law are, that the woman, if not always the most active, is a consenting party. The result is practically that the consequences to the male being known and finite, thousands of men annually suffer themselves to be seduced—as the law has it—by designing women, who sacrifice not only their own future peace of mind and temporal prospects, but court the scorn of the world and bodily suffering to gratify inordinate passion. The unfortunate male is the victim."  
Jane and Edward sat mute. Edward's face expressed some kind of alarm while Jane looked baffled.  
"I beg your pardon.", Lovell apologized. "This is not something to be discussed when a woman is present. I let myself get carried away."  
"Oh no, no. I don't mind that. I am not offended easily", Jane assured him. She was, of course, offended. She wished to tell Lovell that it was not the child's fault if it was born illegitimate. How every child, orphan or not, good blood or bad blood, illegitimate or not, deserved a chance. How every child had the right to be happy and loved. But she could not. She was not even sure if that was still her opinion.  
Jane cast a glance at her husband. He was highly uncomfortable with the subject. She was interested in his opinion, though.  
"Mr. Rochester, do you not have an opinion on this?", she therefore asked. "What do you think about seduction and illegitimate offspring?"  
Panic was written in Rochester's face now.  
"I…I…I", he stammered, then quickly turned to Lovell. "I believe that it is wrong to blame the woman alone. It neglects the complexity of the situation. Neither should a child resulting from such a relationship be punished."  
He had said what Jane could not say anymore. How similar their minds worked. Or at least they had done so once.  
"So it is solely the man's fault?", Lovell concluded, looking puzzled.  
"Oh, no. No, sir. You misunderstand me. As I said, it is probably a rather complex situation and I think we should not judge Miss Ashberry, the men, or the child without knowing all the details."  
Jane lapsed into deep thought as the conversation took yet another turn. None of the topics they talked about afterwards interested her.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one is waiting for a certain day, that day seems to never come. And so it was with Jane. July flew by and Jane retreated more and more. She never left the house. She had stopped leaving notes for Rochester to read, she had stopped painting. She got up in the morning, ate once a day, worked on her autobiography the rest of the day, and went to bed early. It was only when she played with or taught her children that she left her parlour. When her hand ached because of so much writing, she got up, walked over to the window and watched the drive until her hand felt better. But the progress she made with her book was not as good as one would have expected. Though she wrote much, she burned most of it because she was not satisfied with it or because it told of thoughts so intimate that as soon as she had written them down, she decided that no one was ever to read them. Much enjoyment she did not expect in the life opening before her: yet it would, doubtless, if she regulated her mind, and exerted her powers as she ought, yield her enough to live on from day to day.  
Since July was almost over, and Blanche still had not been to Gavelkind, Jane already thought that maybe Blanche had forgotten to come; or that she had changed her mind; or that Rochester had managed to make her stay away. So, when on the 29th the weather was rather nice—not too hot but not too cool either—Jane composed herself to take a walk outside. She had been writing all day long—she had just started a new chapter; chapter 35— and felt like she could use some air.  
So, now Jane listened to the birds in the trees and stopped in front of every flower to sniff it. What pleasant smell. Each flower more enjoyable than the previous one. At least nature was kind to her. With her eyes closed, she turned her face up to the sky and enjoyed how the sun tickled her pale cheeks. She would have liked to stay out here for ever, she dreaded to go back to the house. But, since the sun began to set, she thought it wise to return to what she had for so long a time called her home.  
She was just walking up the drive, when a crunching of wheels and a tramp of horse-hoofs became audible. She turned around. An open carriage was approaching. The carriage, which itself was as white as snow, was drawn by four splendid white horses. Jane did not wait for it to reach her. Instead, she ran up the drive, up the stairs and into the house. She paused in the hall to catch her breath. But when Edward came down the stairs, she quickly withdrew into his parlour. A moment later voices were heard in the hall. Edward was talking to someone. It was a woman with an extremely high voice. A familiar voice. Blanche's voice. Jane became a pillar of salt. She listened but she could not understand what they were saying. Then there were steps coming closer and closer. What should she do? She could not just stand around like this when they entered, she had to do something. Quickly, she walked over to the shelf and pretended to be looking for a book.  
The door opened. Edward stepped in first, holding the door for his guest. The moment of her entrance seemed to pass in slow motion. Blanche was still a beauty. The noble bust, the sloping shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were still there;—and her face? Her face was still her mother's—even more so than 11 years ago; an unfurrowed likeness: the same low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It was even, by now, so saturnine a pride!  
Jane remained where she was. She immediately noticed Blanche's well-shaped, still barely visible, pregnant belly.  
"Not as big as Thornfield Hall, I daresay!", were Blanche's first,—completely useless—words, as she stood in the middle of the room, looking around. She was not impressed and she did not hide it.  
Blanche spotted Jane and eyed her from head to foot. The gesture of disgust with which she pursued her examination did not hurt Jane. What hurt her was the perfect indifference which her husband displayed.  
"Does that person want you?" Blanche inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the "person" was. He made a curious grimace—one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations—closed the door but said nothing.  
"Well", Jane answered instead. "Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of me. I am his wife."  
Frowning, Blanche looked at Edward.  
"I would rather not", she said to him.  
Rochester stood pondering. It seemed he was waiting for the issue to resolve itself.  
Blanche soon grew impatient, her expression suspicious.  
"Edward", she pouted. "I shall not say a word unless Miss Eyre leaves the room."  
Rochester winced and cast a scrutinizing look at his wife.  
Jane looked stern. She was determined not to give in. This was _her_ home and she would not let Blanche Notham…  
"Well, Jane", Rochester interrupted her thoughts as he suddenly spoke. "Would you mind leaving us alone?"  
His voice was soft but serious.  
Anger rose in her. How could he dare? And in front of that woman! Jane grew furious. All the emotions she had been suppressing seemed to overwhelm her now. Without trying to suppress them any longer, she walked towards her husband just to stop right in front of him.  
"If you do that now", she whispered dangerously and so that only Edward could hear it. "I will not only leave the room but Gavelkind. And you with it!"  
Obviously struggling with his demons, Edward Fairfax Rochester held her gaze for an interminable second. He looked like even if all hell broke loose, he would not have so much as blinked. And, yet, Jane recognized that vulnerability; that touch of infirmity that had always been part of him and which had made him such a loveable creature in her eyes. So many emotions were exchanged, and so much was said in this moment of intimacy that it would have been enough for a lifetime.  
"If you please", Edward eventually said, opening the door for her.

After having closed the door behind Jane, Rochester leaned his forehead against it. Screwing up his eyes, he waited for the pounding in his head to subside. But Blanche would not allow him the luxury of a sober mind.  
"So then, Edward", she said instantly, putting special emphasis on his name. "I suppose we can talk now."  
Rochester sighed heavily as he turned around to face her. She was smiling.  
"Well Blanche", he said weakly. "Why are you here?"  
He began walking up and down the room like a caged lion.  
"My husband", began Blanche, putting on a sad face. "Has been so unfortunate—or perhaps I should say imbecile—as to have been deprived of much of his fortune. Most dreadful!"  
She paused. Rochester looked unimpressed whereupon Blanche stopped him by blocking his path, as he was passing the other door in the room.  
"Be it what it would", she thus continued. "We had to dismiss some of our servants and sell two of our carriages. Two of our carriages, Rochester! Now I have only two left to choose from. Most dreadful! Some of the horses will be next. And then, who knows, the pianoforte and the chandelier in the hall. Can you imagine that? A hall without a chandelier. Never have I lived without the prospect of being able to buy all I desire. Now we have to sell part of our property in order to keep Burrows Hall. Oh Rochester, I cannot speak of it any longer. It pains me to think of the hopelessness of the situation."  
This speech was delivered with a growing sense of self-pity and a voice quivering with grief, while Blanche drew closer to him until there was only an inch of space between them. Rochester stood stiff and motionless.  
"But you, Edward", she brought her lips close to his. "You can help me. Release me from my misery."  
"What is it that you want, Blanche?", inquired Rochester coolly.  
"Eleven thousand pounds."  
He gasped. "Impossible!", said he, shaking his head. "That is about half of what I have in the course of a year. Even if I wanted to, I do not have that amount of money to give away."  
"Well", she said, letting her hand rest on his chest. "I am not asking a favour."  
She undid the topmost button of his waistcoat. "Either you let me have the eleven thousand pounds or I shall have to tell every one about Henry."  
The next button followed.  
"And then, where would you be? Your reputation ruined once more."  
Another button undone.  
"What would you do?"  
Yet another button.  
"Run away again? Where to?"  
She had reached the last button. Rochester was staring at her with strange intensity.  
"You know", he said firmly. "That the boy is not my son."  
Finally, he had said the words he had wished to say ever since he had received those letters. It was such a relief to say it out loud.  
A mischievous smile curled Blanche's lips as she undid the last button.  
"Of course I know. How could you be. You would have never touched me. You have never shown the slightest interest in me. You played with me, used me. That April, when we were all gathered at Thornfield, you did not deign to look at me when we were alone. You would read a book, or look out the window. It was only when we were in company that I became an object of interest to you and, all of a sudden, deserved your attention. Oh! I could feel your unsurmountable aversion. Yes, you have always disliked me, Edward. But, fortunately, you did flirt with me in public. Everyone believed you to be fond of me. I went to Warrener's summer ball right after leaving Thornfield. George Warrener is Henry's father. But nobody shall ever know."  
She slipped a hand under his shirt, touching his back. A smile flashed across her face as she could feel his muscles contract.  
Rochester had not been touched like that for over a month and could feel himself react to it. He cursed himself inwardly.  
"Well", Rochester replied, struggling to breathe steadily. "Pronouncing me the father of your illegitimate child would not only ruin my reputation, but yours as well. Have you considered that?"  
"I have. I would, of course, have never got involved with a man. How can you imagine that?"  
She pretended to be hurt, then commenced to caress his back. Rochester still stood motionless, his gaze taunting.  
"I am however", Blanche went on. "Blessed with an excellent memory which never fails me. And I clearly recall how you came knocking on my chamber door one of those cold April nights. I remember seeing the moon through the window while passing it to open the door. It was a full moon night. How you stood in the door, candle in your hand—I believe it was the left hand, yes, yes it was—and wished to talk to me. 'How are you tonight, Miss Ingram?' you inquired. 'Very well, sir. Thank you!', I said, smiling shyly."  
Edward was aghast at what he saw. Blanche played it brilliantly.  
"You can hardly imagine", she presently sobbed. "The anxiety and terror I felt when you seized me and pushed me over to the bed just to lay me down and force your will upon me. Good lord! The fiery passion that burned in your eyes. I can see it right now. Yes, there it is!"  
There was indeed passion burning in his eyes. But not the kind of passion she was talking about.  
"Then it shall be your assertion against mine", said he.  
She laughed. "And who do you think will they believe? The loving, caring mother or the man who, for 15 years, had a mad woman locked up in his attic—his wife, still alive while he tried to marry his governess, Jane Eyre."  
Blanche moved her hand from his back to his front and then down to his fly. But ere it could reach its destination, Edward forcefully grasped her arm and, his voice laden with wrath, exclaimed: "Her name is Jane _Rochester_! And she is my _wife_, not my governess!"  
Mrs. Notham was taken by surprise. She gave an involuntary sigh.  
"Your gripe is painful!", she declared.  
As she said this, he released her from his clutch, and only looked at her.  
"I grant you one month", she said as she gathered herself. "Then, in exactly four weeks, I shall come back to receive the eleven thousand pounds."  
With these words she proudly walked out of the room.  
Defeated, Rochester sat down in his armchair and ran his fingers through his hair. This was horrible. Yet, what could he do? Blanche was right. Nobody would believe him. He had betrayed people's trust too often. And yes, he had acted like a lovesick puppy around Blanche when they had all gathered at Thornfield even if only as long as they were observed. Of course she must have noticed that. And this, now, was probably her late revenge or her way of punishing him for not having fallen in love with her. Whatever it was, he could do absolutely nothing but to comply with her request. Because, of one thing he was certain: he was not willing to give up the life he and Jane had now. Marvellous memories flashed before his mind's eye. The past years had been the best years of his life and he intended to extend this most wondrous period of time for as long as possible. It had been hard enough to get where they were now.  
Jane! He had to go look for his wife. In a wink of an eye, he rose and rushed out of the room.  
"Mr. Rochester, Mr. Rochester", cried an excited voice behind him. It was Mary approaching.  
"Mr. Rochester", she said again as she reached her master who had stopped at the stairs. "Are you going to leave too? And soon, sir? Dinner would be ready."  
„Why should I wish to leave?", he asked, puzzled.  
"Because Missis did. And she said her return is not to be expected soon. Had we known about it earlier…But now, with all this prepared f…"  
"Mrs. Rochester has left?", he retorted.  
"Well yes, sir."  
"Where did she go?"  
"I don't know. I thought you would know."  
He bit his lip. "I do not. Did she take the carriage? Did she take anything with her?"  
Marry answered in the negative whereupon her master inquired about any other possible piece of information she could give him. But this was all the servant knew.  
"Tell George to saddle a horse", he ordered while hurrying towards the front door.  
Mary was utterly perplexed. "But what about dinner?", she asked in a low voice, already knowing the answer.


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** I just wanted to thank everyone for their feedback. It's interesting to read about the different takes people have on this story. As for all the "why's" and "where's," I promise they will actually all be answered at different points of the story. :o)

**Chapter 6: Struggling for Eyre**

By now, Jane must have had a lead over her husband. As he was mounting his horse, Rochester wasn't even sure where to look for his wife. Where would Jane go? What would she do? She had never been the kind of woman who met friends to gossip and chat and drink tea. So she did not have that kind of friends. She had always spent all her time with her family or herself (while reading, painting, sewing etc.) Jane was a loving mother, a virtuous wife, and a diligent woman. She was all a man could ever wish for. At least in Rochester's eyes she was all that and more.  
But Jane Rochester was still very much Jane Eyre, whether she liked it or not. She was independent and restless. Although she had always longed for a home and family, her mind was still always travelling. He saw it in her eyes. Edward had feared that her time with him was just another chapter in the book that was her life. Just temporary, and over as soon as the page was turned.  
Rochester had reached the gate by now. Which way should he take? He looked left, then right. Turning right would take him to town. Turning left would take him farther into the countryside. What would Jane Rochester do? Disguise herself? Become just another face in the crowd? Leave but still be near what she loves most? He turned right.  
But no, this was wrong. What would she want in town? He turned around and took the other way. But this was where they had come from in the first place. Her past life was down that road. He stopped and sighed.  
"I don't know", he said.  
A light breeze caressed his face and raised a smile. It is amazing how easily a gentle breeze refreshes the mind.  
"What would Jane Eyre do?", Rochester whispered and turned once more, just to ride back to the house. Quickly, he got off the horse and into the house. An idea had taken possession of his mind.  
"You are already back?", Mary inquired desperately. "Now, we've just put away din…"  
"Thank you!", Rochester cut her off. "Do not bother! I am not hungry. Let the children have some. I am fine."  
"Yes, sir."  
Off she went.  
"What would Jane Eyre do?", Edward repeated in a low voice, while heading for Jane's parlour.  
There was the armchair he had sat in while she had read to him. Well…and…done other things with him. He could not help but grin foolishly. Then, however, his eyes focused on the desk. He crossed the room. Perfectly stacked and—as he found out a moment later—neatly arranged, lay the most recent chapters of Jane Eyre's autobiography.  
"So then", he said. "What would you do?"  
And he took the pages and read. How she had come to the conclusion that she had to leave him. How she had departed. How she had wandered around aimlessly. With no destination but "away." Away from the tempting but desolate life she had been offered. Away from the passionate but doomed love. Away from that beloved but destructive force that had been her master. It was all in there. At first, Edward just searched the pages for his name and revelled in every passage that contained a reference to him.  
_…My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and, impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered its shattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him._  
"I shall wait my whole life for you if I must", he declared. His mouth suddenly felt strangely dry.  
_Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it was—what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light—I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe; he was God's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow._  
"Oh Jane", Edward said his eyes flooded with tears. "Do not pray for me. Pray only for yourself."  
_…In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning. And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid!—direct me!"_  
He could hardly bear the thought of her dying. No. But Jane Eyre was strong. She would not die. Never. Rochester read these passages again and again. Then he went back to the beginning of that chapter and read all of it. All the detailed descriptions of her suffering, her starving, her despair, forced him to sit down in the armchair. He rang for a servant and demanded a glass of wine and a glass of water. He would need it.  
_Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some say there is enjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitably so. To be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose business was it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, that of persons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothing about my character. And as to the woman who would not take my handkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sinister or the exchange unprofitable. Let me condense now. I am sick of the subject._  
He drank the wine.  
_…I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the wood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my rest broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders passed near me more than once, and I had again and again to change my quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough. "Will you give me that?" I asked…_  
This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering—a throe of true despair—rent and heaved his heart. Worn out, indeed, he was; not another word could he bear. He sank into the chair: He groaned—he wrung his hands—he wept in utter anguish. Alas, this isolation—this banishment from his kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude was gone.

***

Exhausted, Jane sat down in the grass, under a tree. She had been running for at least 30 minutes and needed to catch her breath. She looked back. She could not see a soul. Nobody was following her. Where was she? She wasn't sure. She had not taken the road. Instead, she had crossed it, crossed the fields behind it and run off into the wilderness.  
And here she was–in the middle of nowhere. She wanted to go back. She missed Edward already. Her heart pined for him, it longed to cling to his heart like a blind man to his guide. Had it been able to, it would have burst out of her chest to get back to its second self, it's best earthly companion, leaving her body behind like a hermit crab an empty shell.  
"What are you doing?", she whispered.  
As if the answer could be found there, Jane looked up to the sky. It was blue and deep as the ocean. It would protect and guide her.  
"What would Jane Eyre do?"  
Involuntarily, these words left her lips. And she rose and moved on. She walked until she got to the road. There she sat down and waited. She waited for a coach, waited for Edward, waited for an absolution. A coach came that would take her into the right direction and the coachman agreed to take her with him. But she had to pay.  
"How much do you have?", the man asked.  
So the young woman searched her pockets, gathered all the money that could be found in them and then, offering it to the man, said: "20 pounds, sir."  
He took her as far as he could until they reached a place where four roads met. Here he set her down. He would take a different road from the one she had to take. Days had passed, it was evening again. She stood on a hill. A rock rested on a grassy mound next to the road. She climbed the rock, and looked around. There were houses down in the valley. She could see the lights—tiny flames dancing in the dark. But tonight, they would stay exactly that—reminders of a world she had once left. She would not go down there tonight. She would stay on the hill. Tonight, this rock was to be her bed.  
Some time passed before she felt tranquil even here: she had a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might discover her. If a gust of wind swept the waste, she looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled, she imagined it a man. Finding her apprehensions unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep silence that reigned as evening declined at nightfall, she took confidence. As yet she had not thought; she had only listened, watched, dreaded; now she regained the faculty of reflection. How far could she have got? She had paid the coachman three out of her 20 pounds. She tried to recall the way the coach had taken, tried to calculate the distance between her and Gavelkind. They had stopped several times, had rested in taverns, ate in the coach if there was no village or town nearby. But no, she wasn't there yet. She would have to move on by foot. One day, maybe a half. Pondering this, she fell asleep.  
She was woken by something tugging on her clothes, in the middle of the night. A moment of horror paralysed her and for a second she believed it to be a dream. In her mind's eye, she saw the strangest creatures, wildest animals and most scary ghosts. All of which wanted to rip out her grieving heart and devour it. It took her a while to wake up from such deep sleep, but when, finally, she had completely regained consciousness, she knew it was real. She was not sure what she expected to see as she opened her eyes. But what she did not expect to see was a person in dark clothes rummaging her pockets. This, however, was exactly what was happening. As she beheld the stranger, her first reaction was an urge to scream. But she did not know if this person was dangerous. He might have been armed. So screaming, suddenly, seemed a bad idea. Yet, she had to do something. She pretended to be still asleep and waited till the person was done with her pockets.  
"Get away from me!", she yelled, once that person had taken his hands off. Then she kicked the stranger with all her might. The man, for it was a man as she could tell from his voice now, groaned, fell, got up and ran off. This terrifying experience kept her awake for the greater part of the night. She only dozed a bit just before the sun dawned.  
This next day began with the frightening realization that she was not at home, that she had replaced her comfortable bed with a cold rock far away from Gavelkind. But she soon remembered all that had happened and forced herself to stay calm – think clear. Jane sat up and looked across the valley. The prospect was marvellous. But she could not enjoy it for she felt hungry. She had not eaten much yesterday. At first, she thought about gathering berries and such but she soon dismissed that thought. It was better, she decided, to buy something to eat down in the valley. As she could see now, the lights she had observed last night belonged to a small village. There she would also inquire about where she was. Trembling, for it was still early and cold, Jane walked down the hill and into the village. This village was merely a small assemblage of cottages connected by a single dusty road. Few people where on this road and they all looked poor and plain. They looked at Jane as if they expected her to be a wolf in sheep's clothing, as she walked along that road dressed in her dirty but still decent looking clothes. Did they envy her? Jane wasn't sure. She hoped not. They certainly did not pity her. But she did not blame them. She did not expect them to. Nobody was supposed to pity her, for this had been her decision and her decision alone and for life, was yet in her possession, with all its requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden must be carried; the want provided for; the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled. She walked on and entered the first shop that offered bread. A woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility. How could she serve her? Jane asked for bread and as the woman turned to get a loaf for her customer, Jane reached into her pocket to pay. At that moment, she noticed that her money was gone.  
"No!", she exclaimed, startled by the realization that the stranger last night must have stolen her money and valuables. And indeed, anything valuable she had had was now gone.  
"What is it?", asked the woman, holding the loaf in her hands. "Is this not what you asked for?"  
Jane made an effort to calm down.  
"Yes, yes it is. It is just…" what should she say? The truth seemed unbelievable. However, much less could she lie.  
"I have no money", she thus explained in a low voice. She dared not offer her the half-worn gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides, Jane felt it would be absurd. So she just forced a smile and asked: "How far is it to Millcote?"  
Disappointed in the expectation of a customer, the woman answered coolly. "Millcote? A day if you walk. You can make it before sunset, if you leave now."  
Jane nodded. She was still hungry but did not want to disturb this woman any longer. She left the shop.  
Being out of money, Jane had to beg for food. Having experience with that, she was more successful this time than she had been 11 years ago. Yet, she felt bad for approaching people who had less than she had herself and asking for what they had so little of already. But she had to do it because, for the time being, she was one of them. Lower even.

***

Three days had passed. Rochester had had people look for Jane all around the county. But without success. Nobody had seen her or heard from her. And nobody but him actually really cared. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, as the world just kept turning and turning. It seemed to spin so fast that it made Rochester feel dizzy. He could not understand how every one else could just go on as usual. Did they not realise that some one was missing? Such an important person even.  
"She is not to them what she is to me", Edward thought and snorted contemptuously. He himself felt incapable of sitting on a horse or in a coach or anywhere else but the armchair in his parlour. This was where he was sitting right now and where he had been sitting most of the time for the last three days. He felt incapable of doing anything other but sit and drink wine. He reached for the glass, brought it to his lips and saw that it was empty.  
"Mary!", he yelled, his voice dry and weary.  
Mary came running and inquired if there was anything wrong.  
"I need more wine. Bring me another glass", he demanded. "No wait. Bring the bottle."  
Mary nervously shifted weight from one foot to the other.  
"Are you sure, sir? You've had lots of wine already. Enough, if I may say so."  
Rochester grunted. "Devil, no! You may not. And now go and get the wine."  
She bowed and left. A few minutes passed before the door opened again.  
"What took you so long", Rochester complained. "Are you trying to make me miserable?"  
A little girl stepped in, holding a doll. It was Charlotte. She looked irritated because of the harsh tone her father had adopted.  
"Oh", he said smiling slightly as he saw it was his daughter, not Mary, coming in. "How are you my dear?"  
His tone had changed. It was now tender and soothing with an undercurrent of apology.  
The girl just stood in the door, embracing her doll as if she feared some one could take it away from her.  
"Where is mama?", she just asked.  
Rochester sighed. "I don't know."  
"When will she come back?"  
"I am sorry my dear but I cannot answer these questions. I know no more than you do."  
Pouting, Charlotte explained that she missed her mama and had something to tell her.  
"Well", Rochester answered. "You can tell me."  
Charlotte looked at her doll, then at her father again.  
"Must I tell you?"  
"You must not. Only if…"  
"I shall tell Clara then", the little girl interrupted him and walked off.  
Edward frowned.  
Clara was the children's nurse. An old, kind-hearted woman. Jane had chosen her. Clara had grey hair, a double chin and the most crooked teeth he had ever seen. But she was unbelievably good to the children, was patient with them and, in turn, the children loved her dearly.  
"MARY!", Rochester yelled again. "My wine!"  
She came in with the bottle.  
"I beg your pardon, sir. I had to go get a new bottle. You have already emptied those we had in the kitchen."  
He did not seem to have heard her but just stretched out his arm to accept the wine.  
"You may go", he snorted, taking a mouthful of it.  
As Mary walked out of the parlour, some one else entered. This time, it was Nathan. He was crying.  
"Mama! Mama!", he exclaimed bitterly.  
Rochester put the bottle aside.  
"What is it, son?", he asked.  
Still crying, the boy came over to him.  
"My leg. It is bleeding. Look!" And he showed him his leg.  
"What happened?", Rochester inquired while examining the wound. It was just a cut. Nathan was still demanding his mother. Sobbing, he explained how he had been searching stones for his slingshot, stumbled and fallen.  
"You see, son", Rochester replied. "That happens when you are not careful enough."  
The sobbing got worse.  
"Nathan, be a man, stop weeping like a baby."  
Crying for his mother, the child ran out of the room and Rochester was alone again. He preferred being alone. Jane would have been the only company he would have liked, and needed. Without her he did not know what to do or what to talk about. He could not sleep or eat. Without his wife he was a cripple with no zest for life. Jane was his reason, his strength, his spirit and the source of his energy. In short: He could not function without her. Edward had almost forgotten how important she really was. He had become so used to that life with her. He had taken all of it for granted and it was only now that he realized his dependence. It was because of Jane that he was still alive. It was because of her that he was.  
Edward missed dinner. But he was not hungry anyway. Taking the half-empty bottle with him, he went straight up into their chamber. But he did not go to bed. Instead, he sat by the window, which was open: it soothed him to feel the balmy night-air. He longed for Jane. He longed for her both with soul and flesh. He asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if he had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss and peace once more. That he merited all he endured, he acknowledged—that he could scarcely endure more, he pleaded.  
Edward drank some wine.  
He wondered where she was. He hoped that she did not have to be alone. Yet, he abhorred the thought of her being with some one else now, especially another man. Jealousy crept into his consciousness and was joined by anger a moment later. She was probably with another man right now. Seducing him. Tempting him. Of course Edward would have to kill that man, if only to preserve his honour.  
He took another sip from the bottle.  
How could she do that to him? And to their children? What kind of mother would leave her children behind and abandon her husband like this?  
Again, the bottle found its way to his lips.  
Just because of some letters. How could she believe those letters so easily? Why did she have to walk into his study in the first place? What about privacy? Did she have no respect?"  
He drank.  
All these years, all the love he had given her. And what for? To be left; thrown away like a pair of worn-out shoes.  
Finishing the bottle, he rose from his chair, stumbled across the room and fell onto the bed.

***

In her younger and more vulnerable years, Jane had loathed ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices. Poverty for her had been synonymous with degradation back then and she had been unable to see how poor people had the means of being kind. In those years she had thought herself not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste. But those years were long gone. Jane had experienced both: Liberty at the price of caste, and outrageous wealth at the price of liberty. Both experiences had been very short, though, and for the most part of her adult life she had lived as a free and wealthy woman. She had become so used to that life, she had taken all of it for granted. It was only now that she realized how lucky she had been.  
Leaving the valley, she saw women nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village. It was noon and she had spent the morning begging for food. She had got an apple, an egg and a handful of bread dough from a baker whose apprentice had spoiled the dough. It tasted horrible and she wished the dough had at least been baked into bread. But she had been hungry and had had no choice, so she had forced it down. Thus prepared for the long walk that lay ahead, she set out. She knew that she probably would not make it to Millcote before sundown. Time was to prove her right. Even though she rarely stopped and walked fast, the sun was already setting when she reached familiar landscapes. Therefore she could not pause to wallow in memories of days gone by. As it was already dark when she reached Millcote, she decided to spend another night in the open with the sky as her blanket and the stub of a tree as her pillow. She prayed for her husband before falling asleep. She prayed for his health, his strength and his sanity. She also prayed for her children and their safety. Her sleep then was as fitful as the night before but at least she was not robbed again. She had nothing left any one could have wanted anyway.  
Jane entered Millcote the next morning. Not much had changed. Familiar shops and houses lined the street she was walking down. People chatted or busily hastened from one shop to the next and carriages passed Jane. In this bustle she got the feeling that some people looked at her in a strange way. Not knowing whether or not it was just her imagination, she tried to ignore it. As soon as she had left Millcote again, and had thus reached a more quiet place, Jane took out a piece of paper. It was a letter. She glanced at it and nodded. She was almost there. Reassured, she moved on. She soon arrived at a manor house which was maybe half as big as Thornfield Hall. Tendrils covered the front of the house, giving it a friendly, tranquil atmosphere. Jane knocked on the door. It took a while until some one opened it. An old woman stood before her.  
"Mrs. Rochester?!", the woman said, thunderstruck.  
Jane nodded. "Yes."  
A smile flashed across the old woman's face. "Good lord! Mrs. Rochester! I can hardly believe it. It has been so long!"  
Again, Jane nodded. "I know and I am sorry…"  
"No need to be sorry, ma'am. I just…" She stopped abruptly, looking worried now. "Has something happened?"  
"Oh no, no. No worries. Now then, Mrs. Fairfax, are you going to let me in or shall I explain myself out here?"  
Mrs. Fairfax apologized and stepped back to let the guest inside.  
"We can talk in the kitchen."  
The kitchen was a bright room with large windows overlooking the backyard.  
"You look hungry", Mrs. Fairfax observed. "Have you not had breakfast?"  
Jane took a seat. "No, I'm afraid I have not."  
While the old woman prepared something to eat for her guest, Jane proceeded to tell her about her journey and how she had been robbed.  
"Good lord!", exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax. "But why did you not come with a carriage? You must have carriages at Gavelkind."  
Jane did not intend to tell Mrs. Fairfax why she was here or why she had left Gavelkind. Had she told her the truth, Mrs. Fairfax might have written to Mr. Rochester in order to let him know where his wife was. Jane could not take that risk. So she decided to make up a story to explain it all.  
"Well yes, we have a carriage. But Mr. Rochester has taken it to go to N---."  
Mrs. Fairfax placed a plate with food and a glass of water in front of Jane, then sat down as well.  
"And have you only one carriage?", she asked in disbelief.  
"Well no. But the other carriage is broken."  
The old woman shook her head. "That is bad. Very bad. You could have just waited until Mr. Rochester is back to come here." She seemed to lapse into thought. One could almost see how her mind was working hard to make sense of it all. "And you should have written to tell me. I did not expect to see one of you near Thornfield ever again. I must admit, I am surprised."  
"I am sorry I did not announce my visit", Jane replied, enjoying her warm meal. "I did not mean to impose on you. It is just that an unexpected occurrence nearby requires my attention and I thought it a good opportunity to pay you a visit."  
She tried to keep the explanation as vague as possible and, sensing Jane's reluctance to talk about it in detail, Mrs. Fairfax asked no questions concerning this 'unexpected occurrence'. She did inquire about Mr. Rochester, though. Whether he was well and still enjoyed his new life.  
Jane flinched involuntarily.  
"Ah you know him", she answered, struggling to smile. „It is almost impossible to assess Edward Rochester."  
"True. But if any one can do it, it is you, ma'am."  
"And yet, I'm not infallible."  
Ere Mrs. Fairfax could react, Jane added that she was still looking for a place to stay overnight. Would Mrs. Fairfax know of such a place?  
The old woman was enthralled by the possibility of having her stay a while.  
"You can stay right here, I am sure. The master is a very kind man. And he likes to have company. I shall ask him immediately."  
And to her master she went. While Jane was waiting in the kitchen, she tried to recall what she knew about that man. She had never met him. What she knew had been imparted to her by Mrs. Fairfax or by Edward, who had only met him twice himself. Jane reflected.  
From what she had heard, she pictured a man 70 or older who walked with a cane while inspecting his garden and talking to butterflies that settled on nearby flowers. Jane chuckled.  
It did not take long before Mrs. Fairfax returned to inform her that the master wished to speak to his guest. That said, Jane knew she had permission to stay. And although it delighted her, it also put pressure on her for she felt she had to answer her host's expectations of a respectable guest.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: A Pretty Woman is a Welcome Guest**

He woke to an all penetrating throb that slipped into the back of his mind. The sensation grew exponentially to the awakening of his consciousness. If only whoever caused it would…  
"Stop that noise!", he exclaimed, sitting up. It was only now that he realized the throbbing was in his head. Overwhelmed, he let himself fall back again. Rubbing his forehead, he gave a loud moan, then lay quiet, listening to the sounds of the house—Very faint sounds: Steps from the nursery, Pilot whining in front of the chamber door, a murmur downstairs. Yet, all of it seemed to worsen the headache. What had happened? He could not remember.  
Rochester turned around. An empty bottle lay next to him where Jane was supposed to lie. Suddenly, the memory of Jane having left came back; and with it all the sadness and despair. A laugh rose in his chest. He did not know why but he let it break from his lips. It soon turned into another moan though, as he rolled out of bed. He was still wearing breeches and a white shirt. Well, at least he would not have to change.  
Another wasted day lay ahead. He had breakfast with a glass of milk. Anything that would put an end to that damnable throbbing. He ate lethargically, chewed every bit to a pulp and washed it down with milk. All of it had the same dull taste anyway. He was just bringing the fork to his mouth once again, when something caught his attention. He literally froze, his eyes fixed on his hand which was holding the fork inches above the plate. The object of interest to him was the ring on his finger. He glanced at it for a long while. It was his wedding ring. And it was _his_ wedding ring. It was on _his_ finger. Not on anybody else's finger. Why, then, had he been sending out others to find his wife? It was time for him to accept responsibility and take matters into his own hands. He wanted his wife back? Well, then he had to take care of it himself. And if it meant to search the world for her, then he would throw himself on a damn horse and search her in the remotest corners of the earth. But at first, he should maybe try nearer places. He put down the fork and rose.  
He had already started off with trying to get into Jane's head by reading her autobiography. But he had stopped due to the desperation and sorrow that had overcome him and had resulted in senseless drinking. He was sober now, his mind clear. He kept the still unfinished autobiography in his study, locked away in a drawer. There, he went, took the manuscript out of the drawer and continued to peruse it. In the current chapter, Jane came upon a house; black, low, and rather long. Through a window, she could observe three women who turned out to be Diana and Mary Rivers and Hannah, their servant. They mentioned St. John which caused Rochester to bite his lip in order not to curse that man.  
After having come back to Rochester, Jane had talked about them very much. She had talked about St. John very much. He had left a strong impression on her. However, no derogatory word had ever crossed her lips when she had spoken of St. John. She had only repeated how he had been incapable of love and cold as ice. Yet, that man had done something to her. Whether good or bad, Edward could not tell. He tried to concentrate on the manuscript.  
_The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very dim in my mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but few thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small room and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on it motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from it would have been almost to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time—of the change from morning to noon, from noon to evening. I observed when any one entered or left the apartment: I could even tell who they were; I could understand what was said when the speaker stood near to me; but I could not answer; to open my lips or move my limbs was equally impossible… _  
He knew these feelings perfectly well now. His own recollection of the last three days was a cloud of dim feelings, vague memories and oppressive idleness. Nothing had excited his mind. But while his own state was self-inflicted, Jane's condition had rather been forced upon her. Caused by the man she had loved so vigorously, the man who had insulted her just as much by trying to make her his mistress. His mistress! What was he thinking? Not a day would she have survived that degrading life—A spirit as strong as hers. Not a night would she have endured his intentions, such impertinence. He felt the urge to numb the emerging sensation of self-hatred and disgust with alcohol. But he suppressed it. Instead, he took up Jane's autobiography again.  
_…Hannah, the servant, was my most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I had a feeling that she wished me away: that she did not understand me or my circumstances; that she was prejudiced against me. Diana and Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a day. They would whisper sentences of this sort at my bedside—  
"It is very well we took her in."  
"Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone through?"  
"Strange hardships, I imagine—poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer?"  
"She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of speaking; her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off, though splashed and wet, were little worn and fine."  
"She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like it; and when in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would be agreeable."…_  
Agreeable?! How could they see no more than an agreeable person?! And it went on like this…  
_…Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the hospitality they had extended to me, or of suspicion of, or aversion to, myself. I was comforted.  
Mr. St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my state of lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he was sure, would manage best, left to herself…_  
…Oh St. John would have let her die. Rochester was sure about that. It was Jane's strength only that had saved her life...  
_…He said every nerve had been overstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. There was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet, low voice; and added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive comment "Rather an unusual physiognomy; certainly, not indicative of vulgarity or degradation."…_  
Of course not! What did this man expect? A witch?! Did he not see he was looking at an angel?  
_"Far otherwise," responded Diana. "To speak truth, St. John, my heart rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit her permanently."  
"That is hardly likely," was the reply. "You will find she is some young lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them, if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face which make me sceptical of her tractability." He stood considering me some minutes; then added, "She looks sensible, but not at all handsome."…_  
Rochester gasped as if someone had just hit him in the stomach. This man's impudence was almost impossible to bear. What a vicious heart had resided in his chest that he had been so blind to true beauty; So cold and ruthless?  
_…"She is so ill, St. John."  
"Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those features."_  
Breathing heavily, Edward put these pages aside. It was a pity he could not tell St. John his opinion anymore. He had so much to say to that man right now.  
He reflected on what he had just read. Eleven years ago, Jane had ended up with Diana, Mary and St. John Rivers. St. John was dead but his sisters were still alive and well. Jane had probably gone to either Diana or Mary. They were her only family apart from her husband and children. And there he would look for her.

***

The hall was longer than Jane had expected. Or maybe it just seemed like it because she was nervous about meeting Mr. Charles Shrewsbury, the master of the house. Mrs. Fairfax was with her but she said nothing.  
"Why did you take on this position?", Jane asked, trying to start a conversation. "Is the annuity not enough?"  
The old woman laughed. "Oh it is more than enough. Mr. Rochester is too good to me. I am just not a person who can sit around doing nothing. I need to care for some one. I have cared for people all my life."  
"Which is exactly why you deserve a life now in which you have to care for no one but yourself."  
Mrs. Fairfax shook her head. "Oh no, ma'am. It would be my death. As you know, I lived with friends for about a year and I did not know what to do with my time. I was taken ill thrice during that year. I had never been ill all my life. It is better this way."  
They reached the door to the parlour in which Mr. Shrewsbury was sitting. They stopped.  
"But you are…", Jane started, was cut off by Mrs. Fairfax though.  
"I am very well, Mrs. Rochester. And I am grateful to be back in this county. C--- was such a doleful place."  
Mrs. Fairfax had lived with those friends after the fire, when Rochester had moved to Ferndean. Shortly after Edward and Jane's marriage, she had then wished to come back to work for Rochester again for the same reasons she had just stated. However, when Edward had bought Gavelkind, Mrs. Fairfax had expressed the wish to stay near Millcote where she had lived for the greater part of her life. So, Edward had found her this position. She still got the annuity as well. This way she would always be able to provide for herself.  
"I think you had better go in now, ma'am", Mrs. Fairfax said, pointing at the door to the parlour. "He is waiting for you."  
Jane nodded, then entered.  
The red walls and comfortable furnishing gave the parlour a cozy atmosphere. The most striking object in the room was a large armchair which stood in front of the fireplace. A fire was burning low in the grate. Sitting in the armchair, was an old man who was busy stroking his long, white beard. Hair, just as white as his beard, fringed a bald spot on his head. A pair of bushy eyebrows completed the picture. He did not seem to notice Jane.  
"Sir?", she thus addressed him.  
There was no reaction.  
"Sir?", she repeated, speaking up a bit.  
He stopped stroking his beard and turned to her.  
"You are Mrs. Rochester, I presume?"  
His voice was calm and almost regal.  
"Yes sir."  
"Forgive me for not having heard you come in. My ears are not as good as they once were. I'm an old man, you see."  
The young woman smiled understandingly.  
"Then I shall speak up, sir."  
He thanked her, then asked her to sit down. Jane fetched a chair from a table nearby and took a seat next to Mr. Shrewsbury.  
"Your name is indeed Mrs. Rochester is that right?"  
She answered in the affirmative whereupon he recommenced stroking his beard.  
"Interesting", he said in a low voice. "I knew a Mr. Rochester once. He lived right here in this county."  
Jane swallowed nervously, not knowing what to say. The old man continued.  
"He was an avaricious, grasping man. Died many years ago. He had two sons, the elder of which, Rowland, had already died when Mr. Rochester himself passed away."  
That story, of course, sounded familiar. She had heard it many times. Every time one of their children asked about their grandfather, Edward told this story. But Jane pretended it was all news to her.  
"Now that both, father and brother had died, the entire property would go to the youngest son, Edward. He became a rich man. Very rich indeed. But all his wealth did not make him happy, as it seems. Because, you see, his brother had not been quite just to Mr. Edward; and perhaps he had prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he was of age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair, and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune: what the precise nature of that position was I will come to in a moment, but his spirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He began to escape to countries far away from here. In fact, he was hardly ever at home. At that time, nobody knew why. But the mystery was solved about a decade ago…"  
She feared now to hear her own story. It haunted her like a ghost.  
"There was a young lady, a governess at the Hall, that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was after her continually. They used to watch him—servants will, you know, ma'am—and he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him thought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing, they say, almost like you, I would think. I never saw her myself; but I've heard Leah, the house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this governess not twenty—yes indeed she must be about your age now, ma'am—and you see, when gentlemen of his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were bewitched. Well, he would marry her."  
Jane tried to keep her breathing under control but failed.  
"Are you not well, ma'am?", Shrewsbury asked carefully.  
Jane made an effort to gather herself, then replied: "I am. I am just…it is rather warm in here with the fire and the sun shining through the window."  
"You may open the window if you wish."  
So she did, then returned to her seat.  
"Where was I?", her host thus went on. "Oh, they were to be married. But as it turned out, there was a lady—a lunatic, kept in the house. She was kept in very close confinement, ma'am. No one saw her. They said Mr. Rochester had brought her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress. This lady, then, turned out to be Mr. Rochester's wife. His father and brother Rowland had joined in a plot against him and married him to a mad woman so he would not be a poor man when his brother would inherit the family estate. All this was discovered after the fire at Thornfield Hall, where he used to live."  
Jane closed her eyes in order to hide the tears rising in them.  
"'What fire', you will now think", proceeded Shrewsbury. "Well as I was told, one night, this lunatic wife, who had found a way to escape every now and then, set fire first to the hangings of the room next her own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made her way to the chamber that had been the governess's—(she was like as if she knew somehow how matters had gone on, and had a spite at her)—and she kindled the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The governess had run away two months before; and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the most precious thing he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew savage—quite savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but he got dangerous after he lost her. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut himself up like a hermit at the Hall."  
Jane was holding her breath, countless thoughts were rushing through her head. She pictured Edward sitting at home like that right now. She fought the tears.  
"He would not cross the door-stones of the house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses—which it is my opinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was before that governess left him, you never saw, ma'am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own, if ever man had. I knew him as a boy: and for my part, I have often wished that Miss Eyre, that was the governess's name, had never left Thornfield Hall. For, you see, as it seems, she was the one thing that could give meaning to his life. In fact, he had stopped travelling after meeting her. Imagine that: that poor man had travelled the world in order to find that one thing that could make him happy and then he finally finds it right here in England. Astonishing, is it not?"  
Jane felt unable to speak, so she did not.  
The old man's eyes grew distant as he spoke again.  
"Well, it is a rather sad story. Mr. Edward lost a hand and his vision when he tried to save his lunatic wife from that fire. She committed suicide that fateful night. I do not know what became of Mr. Rochester then, but I sure hope he is well and married that woman. Because she was the one person that could 'charm him', as the servants said; the only thing he ever treasured. And, you see, if a man loves a woman like that he will wait for her and he will do anything for her. He would go through hell for her if only he can be with her."  
He paused and examined her closely.  
"You know, ma'am, with your name, and your age, and your looks, most people would assume that you are, in fact, that very woman."  
Jane gasped heavily.  
"But I never listen to what other people say", he mentioned in passing, glanced at a clock on the wall, rose and grabbed a cane that was leaning against the armchair.  
"Now then, it was very nice talking to you Mrs. Rochester. I hope you will enjoy your stay. It is time for me to inspect my garden now. You are welcome to join me."  
Jane, however, felt physically exhausted upon listening to Mr. Shrewsbury's tale. She needed a break. So she answered that she would rather just sit in the parlour for a while if he did not mind.  
"Very well", the old man replied kindly and, with a curious smile on his face, left her alone.

Having nothing better to do, Jane helped Mrs. Fairfax in the kitchen. The housekeeper kept telling her that she would not need to do that and that she was a lady now and such. But Mr. Shrewsbury was still outside and Jane really did not know what else to do. And besides, she did not mind. She enjoyed being useful. What Jane didn't mention was that it also gave her the opportunity to talk to Mrs. Fairfax and drop some questions about Shrewsbury.  
"So you like your new master?", she asked while cleaning the table.  
"Yes. He is a good master indeed."  
"He is not Mr. Rochester", Jane remarked with a smile on her lips that the other woman couldn't see.  
"Certainly not, no."  
Jane just chuckled.  
"Oh, I did not mean to say that Mr. Rochester…", the old woman said quickly.  
Jane stopped cleaning the table to look at Mrs. Fairfax who was doing the dishes behind her.  
"I know what you mean", she interrupted her. "And you are right. He is absolutely not like Edward." she paused to continue cleaning. "He is not married, is he?"  
That question obviously touched a nerve. Mrs. Fairfax sighed audibly.  
"He was married once. The servants who knew his wife say Mr. Shrewsbury was very much in love with her. They say they were the happiest couple the world had ever seen. She adored him and he worshipped her. They were made for each other. They had waited twenty years to get married."  
Jane's interest was aroused. The table was forgotten. Cleaning rag in her hand, she stood leaning with her back against the table so she could watch the housekeeper.  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well, obviously his family and her family were at feud with each other over some land issue and her father would not allow her to marry him. So it was only after her father's death that they could marry."  
Again, Mrs. Fairfax sighed.  
"Well", Jane urged her to speak on. "What happened then, where is Mrs. Shrewsbury now? Did she leave him?"  
Jane wasn't sure how she came up with that idea. The conversation she had had with Shrewsbury had suggested that he had gone through a situation like that.  
The housekeeper was done doing the dishes and faced Jane now.  
"She died thirty years ago", the old woman explained compassionately. Jane bit her lip. That possibility hadn't even crossed her mind. Considering Mr. Shrewsbury was at least 70, it did, of course, seem to be the most obvious option now.  
"It was about a year after their wedding", Mrs. Fairfax went on. "She died when she gave birth to their only son."  
Son? Jane's mind went wild. She had not heard about a son. Where was he? Should he not have inherited the property by now? Did he not survive? Jane did not dare ask these questions, she already felt incredibly bad for having brought up the subject.  
"The young Mr. Shrewsbury is rarely at home though", Mrs. Fairfax then answered these questions on her own. "He is an officer. His regiment is hardly ever stationed in this part of the country."  
Jane just nodded to indicate that she was still listening while, in fact, she was wondering about Mr. Shrewsbury's wife and trying to make sense of the conversation she had had with the old man.  
"He never writes letters to his father. Sometimes he stays here for a few days, always unannounced, just to disappear as quickly as he arrives. A most singular sort of person if I may say so, ma'am."  
"Indeed", Jane replied, taking a seat as well. She reflected. So: Mr. Shrewsbury had lost his beloved wife shortly after their long awaited marriage. His only family, then, was a son who seemed to show little interest in his father. And yet the old man did not appear sad or desperate or angry with life. Quite the contrary. When sitting next to him, Jane had gotten the impression that Mr. Shrewsbury was a rather content person. Very calm. She had noticed a sense of certainty in his countenance, an air of inner quietude and peace.  
"Well", said the housekeeper suddenly. "The master will be back any time now. I need to put another log on the fire in the parlour. He likes it warm in there."

Every day, Mr. Shrewsbury took a long walk in his garden, through the woods behind the manor house, and along the river that passed through his large estate. The estate was a lot bigger than one would have thought, judging from the size of the manor house. Shrewsbury apparently was a man who spent more time outside than inside and Jane had the chance to admire his truly wonderful estate the following day. It really was worth walking through as much as possible. Just now they were walking along the river. Contemplating the entangled bank, clothed with many plants of many kinds, with birds singing on the bushes, with various insects flitting about, and with worms crawling through the damp earth, Jane was literally speechless. Shrewsbury, on the other hand, paused whenever he spotted an interesting insect or plant. It seemed, however, that to him every insect and plant was of interest. And so he would stop, look at it, and then tell Jane what kind of species it was and where it originated from. It reminded Jane of the day in the orchard at Thornfield when Edward had shown her the moth. She missed him again. It had been the day of the first proposal. A proposal pronounced in such an energetic manner, a speech so passionate and determined that it still gave her shivers. Her heart swelled. Suddenly, Jane wasn't really sure anymore she was doing the right thing and thought that maybe she should be with Edward right now. An urge to talk about it overcame her and maybe, she thought, she could ask for advice. Shrewsbury seemed to read her face like a book anyway. He knew her story, she was quite sure about that.  
"Do you believe in fate?", she asked, seemingly out of the blue.  
The man did not seem to have heard her, he just kept strolling along the river bank for a while. He then stopped once more to show her a moth similar to the one Edward had shown her.  
"Look at this fellow", the old man said. "Look at his wings. He reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England; there! he is flown."  
The moth roamed away. Jane followed him with her eyes.  
"You know, Mrs. Rochester", continued Shrewsbury. "When the moth stops flying, it will die."  
"I've seen a similar kind once", she remarked. "They are beautiful indeed."  
Shrewsbury nodded.  
"And can you imagine", said he. "That these elaborately constructed forms, so different from each other, and dependent on each other in so complex a manner, have all been produced by laws acting around us?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"The war of nature, Mrs. Rochester."  
Jane looked around and, perceiving nothing but a calm summer day, noted: "But it all seems so peaceful."  
Shrewsbury smiled slightly.  
"And yet", said he. "There is that constant struggle for life everywhere around us."  
He finally moved on, rather soliloquizing now. "There is grandeur in this view of life, ma'am. That from so simple a beginning, endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved."  
Having said that, he turned around and waited for Jane to catch up.  
When she had reached him, he looked at her attentively, as if reading her face again and added: "Don't stop flying, Mrs. Rochester!"

***

The news of St. John's death had reached Gavelkind in form of a letter a day after Jane had left. The letter, written by a missionary friend of Mr. Rivers had been addressed simply to 'Rochester.' So Edward had opened it, not knowing what sad news it would contain. Sad for Jane, not for him though. He had not considered it his responsibility to write to Diana and Mary in order to express his condolences. After all, Edward had never met that man, knew him only from his wife's accounts of him. It would be Jane's duty to write to her cousins. But Jane had not been here, so she did not even know yet. Rochester, however, was about to visit Diana. Thus, he would have to be the one to offer commiserations.  
All the necessary preparations for Rochester's absence were made. He kissed his children good bye, promised to be back in a day or two and then followed George to the coach that was waiting outside.  
He was just getting into the coach when a woman's voice calling his name stopped him.  
"Are you looking for me?", he asked, getting out of the coach again.  
The woman whose voice he had heard approached him. She looked like she had been painted. She was young, in her early thirties maybe, had a stunning figure and her blonde hair was pinned up to a tidy knot from which only a single strand had managed to escape giving her austere beauty an air of frivolousness.  
Rochester was quite sure he had never seen her before.  
"What can I do for you?", he asked neutrally.  
As she was close enough to see his face, she seemed to hesitate for a moment.  
"Are you Mr. Rochester?", she asked, examining him from head to foot.  
Rochester, who had noticed her reaction, nodded.  
"Yes, indeed. And who are you, ma'am?"  
The young woman relaxed a bit.  
"Elizabeth Ashberry. My daughter and I have just moved into Sutherfield. We are neighbours now, so to speak, Mr. Rochester."  
Splendid! He did not have time for that now.  
"Ah! Yes, I have heard about it. Pleased to meet you, ma'am."  
With these words he again climbed into the coach.  
"Excuse me, sir", Ashberry addressed him again. "I came here all the way from Sutherfield, on foot. I like to know my neighbours, you see. And I thought that maybe we could get to know each other. I have already visited everyone else. They are all sixty or older. Curious case. I am quite glad to see you are younger. In fact you are the youngest person I have met around here."  
That was probably true. It was one of the reasons they had chosen this house. With nobody their age, it was easier to stay away from balls etc. Nobody really wondered if they did not socialize with people so much older.  
"Have you not half an hour to spare?", Miss Ashberry eventually added.  
Edward sighed.  
"It is still early", she continued. "And I am sure, wherever you are going the coachman will be able to make up for the delay."  
It was indeed still early and half an hour probably would not make much of a difference.  
"Very well", said Rochester, getting out of the coach once more. "You have half an hour."  
He thus informed George about the changes in plan and escorted Miss Ashberry into the house. He took her into the drawing room where they sat down on the sofa they had used when Adèle and Baily had arrived.  
"Beautifully furnished", remarked Ashberry as she looked around.  
"Thank you. My wife did that. She is a very creative person."  
"Your wife?", the woman repeated, obviously surprised. "Oh, I did not know you have a wife. Where is she? I would like to meet her."  
Exactly the kind of conversation Edward did not wish to have.  
"I'm afraid that will not be possible, ma'am. I am very sorry, but she is not at home right now."  
"Oh? Where is she? Is she coming back soon?"  
"I would not know."  
"What do you mean?"  
Miss Ashberry grew more and more confused, but, at the same time delight mingled with the confusion written in her face.  
"She probably went to her cousin, which is where I am about to go."  
"Probably?"  
"Well yes, she did not inform me of her intentions."  
"So, she ran off? She has left you, is that what you are trying to say?"  
"I'm not trying to say anything", Rochester's voice grew uneasy. "She just…we have a very special relationship. And she is pursuing a personal liberty."  
As soon as he had said this, Rochester felt it sounded wrong. It was supposed to invalidate Ashberry's theory about Jane having left him so she would not go around and tell everybody. But now he had probably achieved the opposite effect. He cursed inwardly.  
"I understand", replied Miss Ashberry, moving a little closer to him. Edward again noticed how she examined his face, then his arm.  
"An accident", he said abruptly, hoping it would put an end to these wondering looks. Unlike him, she seemed to embody perfect health. Her physiognomy was flawless, he could not detect a single deficiency.  
"An accident?", her perfectly shaped mouth repeated, confused.  
"The eyes, the scars and the hand", explained Rochester. "I got caught in a fire."  
"I am so sorry", answered the young woman, then added: "Ruthless beast!"  
"I beg your pardon?"  
"Your wife. I mean, leaving you because of this…"  
With a look of infinite compassion, Miss Ashberry touched the scars on Edward's face.  
He wasn't sure whether or not she really meant it. He wanted to say something, anything, but his mind went blank. He did not want her to touch him. He did not want her to stop either.  
She drew closer to him.  
"She did not leave me because of this", Edward managed to say.  
Miss Ashberry smiled. "Do you believe that?"  
Yes he did. He was sure. Quite. Almost. This woman's eyes were incredibly blue. One could almost drown in them. And they were coming closer. As were her lips. She kissed him. Edward let it happen, for a few moments at least. But all he could think of was Jane. It was the prevailing thought in his head. He thought of her brilliant smile, her sparkling eyes, and her soft touch. He jumped up and stepped back from the sofa.  
"No", said he. "I could never do that. I love my wife, ma'am. I love her with body and soul. And even if she decided to leave me for whatever reason, I could never love any one but her. She holds the key. She owns my heart. I am all hers and always will be."  
Miss Ashberry was stunned. She was obviously not used to being rejected. Especially not by a man as imperfect as Rochester. She had probably expected that he would easily be seduced by the sheer beauty of so young a woman. Ten years ago, he would have most certainly fallen for her. But these times were over. What he had found went deeper than that and was much stronger than the superficial kind of love Miss Ashberry was just offering him.

***

Presentiments are strange things! She could not say why, but right now Jane had the feeling that the day was to take a disagreeable course. Shrewsbury and her were just coming back from their walk. Not a word had been said about his wife or her husband. They had only talked about things like the humidity in this part of the country, the many plants and insects they had seen and the possibility of rain. While Jane had looked at the clear sky and declared that it would not rain in the near future, Shrewsbury had looked at the ground and had offered her to stay another day if she wished to avoid travelling through the rain tomorrow. She had already agreed not to depart today which had been her intention in the morning. But Mr. Shrewsbury had convinced her that she would always regret not having seen his gardens. However, she had seen them now and did not wish to take up any more of his time.  
He was just assuring her that he indeed enjoyed her company and that he would in fact appreciate it if she decided to stay one more day, when Mrs. Fairfax met them at the front door to tell them that the young Mr. Shrewsbury had arrived during their absence.  
The master of the house looked unpleasantly surprised.  
"Did you just say that my son is here?", he inquired, making sure he had not misunderstood the housekeeper.  
"Yes, sir", confirmed Mrs. Fairfax. "He is in the parlour."  
Shrewsbury nervously shifted weight from one foot to the other. One could almost see his mind running wild. Jane wasn't sure what he was pondering but he did not look happy at all.  
"Well then", he said after a long pause. "Prepare the breakfast room for me."  
"Yes, sir."  
The housekeeper left.  
Now it was Jane who was unpleasantly surprised. A most peculiar situation was this.  
"You do not wish to see your son?", she asked in her frank manner.  
Shrewsbury glanced at her shortly, then walked off into the house saying: "Not if I can avoid it."  
She stood outside for a few minutes, wondering about the old man's reaction. All that peace and contentment in his countenance had vanished within a moment.  
When Jane stepped into the house after a while, she came upon the housekeeper again.  
"Mrs. Fairfax!", she addressed her. "Why is Mr. Shrewsbury not glad to have his son here?"  
Once again, the old woman led her into the kitchen and closed the door, both of which greatly increased Jane's interest in the story behind this incident.  
"I'm afraid", Mrs. Fairfax began to explain. "the master does not think highly of his son. He thinks Mr. Ernest turned out badly."  
Jane could hardly believe it. She could hardly believe Mr. Shrewsbury was capable of thinking less than highly of any one.  
"Really?", she replied in disbelief.  
"Yes, well, you see, the man is an officer with heart and soul", she paused, then added: "And body for that matter."  
Jane was not sure what Mrs. Fairfax meant by that but she kept quiet while Mrs. Fairfax continued.  
"Well, Mr. Ernest Shrewsbury probably will never set up a separate family. He is just not the kind of man who is likely to marry."  
Mrs Fairfax smiled a half-smile that soon turned into a frown and then started to prepare a glass of water.  
"But you shall meet him at dinner, I presume. I must bring this to the master now", she said whereupon both women left the kitchen. The housekeeper went into the breakfast room while Jane proceeded towards the stairs. Her dress had gotten a little dirty due to the walk outside and she wished to change. Crossing the hall, she perceived her sandal was loose; she stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the staircase. She heard the parlour door unclose; a gentleman came out; rising hastily, Jane stood face to face with him: it was Mr…  
"Ernest Shrewsbury", the man introduced himself. He bowed slightly, then added: "I believe we have not met."  
"No, indeed", said the confused young woman. "Jane Rochester, sir. I am pleased to meet you."  
The thirty-year-old man was tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an English face comes so near the antique models as did his. He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of Jane's lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.  
Yet he scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle, a yielding, an impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent as he now stood, there was something about his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to Jane's perceptions, indicated elements within either restless, or hard, or eager.  
So, Miss Rochester…", he finally spoke again.  
"Mrs. Rochester", she corrected him.  
"Ah! Well then, Mrs. Rochester. What relations have you with my father?"  
"I am merely a guest in his house", said she, smiling kindly.  
"I am delighted to hear it."  
Apparently he really was. His features softened instantly. He studied her. Jane tried to make out whether or not his conclusion was positive but his facial expression never changed. He stood motionless like a statue. Jane was just preparing herself to turn and go upstairs when he spoke again.  
"In fact, I would be delighted to learn more about you, ma'am. I like to know the people my father associates with."  
A moment of silence prevailed. Jane was not sure she was the kind of person Mr. Shrewsbury usually associated with. So she would perhaps be little representative of the old man's acquaintances. All of a sudden, Mr. Shrewsbury seemed to have an idea.  
"I was just about to go for a ride, would you like to join me?"  
Would she? Hitherto, she could not see what was so wicked about this man. To her he appeared like a respectable man. Very gentlemanly, kind and considerate. It made her wonder why his father thought ill of him. So, being curious and not having any excuse ready, Jane agreed and immediately followed him outside without changing.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Trifles**

Rochester, upon gathering his senses, told Miss Ashberry that she had better leave. Miss Ashberry, feeling insulted did not wish to stay any longer herself. And so the 30 minutes became 10 minutes.  
When Miss Ashberry was gone, he sat down on the sofa again and buried his face in his hand. It had been a moment of weakness, no more. Jane would understand that. She would not blame him. Or would she? Then again, he did not have to tell her. She would never find out. Miss Ashberry would not mention it. Edward assumed she would be glad as well if nobody ever heard about it. He pondered the options for a while.  
Having come to a decision, Rochester rose to go and look for George. Fortunately, George had not gone far and, after Rochester had gone into his study again to get Jane's autobiography, the journey could begin.  
It wasn't the first time he went this way. Alternately, once every year, Diana and Mary came to see Edward and Jane, and they went to see them. They had not seen each other this year. A visit was planned for October.  
Diana and Captain Fitzjames lived closer to them while Mary and Mr. Wharton occupied a little cottage towards Morton. Edward would reach the Fitzjames's house today in the evening and he hoped that he would be able to embrace his wife then and there. Until then, he had much time during which he could read. He therefore turned to Jane's manuscript. Reading it was almost like talking to her. If he concentrated only on the pages and blocked out all other sensations, he could imagine her sitting next to him, reading her autobiography to him.  
In it, she was recovering, she was taken care of by the Rivers'. A detailed delineation of St. John caught Rochester's eye and quickened his pulse for a moment. But it was nothing compared to the rush of agony he felt when reading Jane's reply to St. John's suggestion that she would be restored to home as soon as she had indicated to them the residence of her friends.  
_"That, I must plainly tell you, is out of my power to do; being absolutely without home and friends."_  
And this she had told St. John while Edward had been looking everywhere for her. Every cottage, every cabin had been searched. He had hired an entire army of men to search the county for his beloved Jane. He had never told her how much money he had spent in order to find her. How much sweat and tears he had shed, back then. How much wine he had needed in order to numb the pain. That the wine had affected his senses and movements the night of the fire. All these things he had never told her—and never would.  
_"Do you mean to say," he asked, "that you are completely isolated from every connection?"  
"I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do I possess to admittance under any roof in England."_  
How could she bring herself to say these things. And not a word about how wrong it felt, how hard it was to tell these lies. For lies they must have been.  
Edward lifted his eyes to look at the landscape passing by. Gentle hills rose on either side of the road, some of which where home to isolated trees and forest patches. He saw a church, then a few houses. He could not tell where exactly they were. They were in another county for sure. He tried to remember having seen any of these landmarks before. It was of no use, he had never looked outside when in a coach with Jane. He had always looked at her, talked to her, imagined her undressed—leaning back on those red cushions. Edward shook his head. Directed his mind to the story told by Jane in her book. He concentrated on the pages in his hand again.  
She talked about life with Diana, Mary and St. John. St. John offered her a post as a schoolmistress. The way he did it annoyed Edward very much. Everything that man said or did annoyed him very much. His kindness did not seem natural at all, rather, it seemed forced, faked almost. It took quite a while until Edward's own name came up again. When it did come up, Rochester wished it had not.  
_Meantime, let me ask myself one question—Which is better?—To have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort—no struggle;—but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in France, Mr. Rochester's mistress; delirious with his love half my time—for he would—oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He did love me—no one will ever love me so again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace—for never to any one else shall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of me—it is what no man besides will ever be.—But where am I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool's paradise at Marseilles—fevered with delusive bliss one hour—suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next—or to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy heart of England?_  
"Neither Jane. You know that."  
_Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment. God directed me to a correct choice: I thank His providence for the guidance!_  
Again, he lifted his eyes, he rubbed them. Reading so much worsened his vision. Meanwhile, the landscape had changed. Fields now appeared on most of the passing hills. Some sheep were grazing here and there, enlivening the scenery. It looked wonderful. He wished Jane was here with him so she could see it too.  
"Where are you?", he whispered involuntarily.  
He then read on, to at least hear her voice in his head.  
Rosamond Oliver did not impress him. Yet, St. John's behaviour towards her displeased him. Then, Jane mentioned his name again.  
_At this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of this calm, this useful existence—after a day passed in honourable exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedly alone—I used to rush into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy—dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him—the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion. By nine o'clock the next morning I was punctually opening the school; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties of the day._  
The coach stopped. It took a while until Edward realized they weren't moving anymore.  
"Why have we stopped?", he called, not trying to hide his impatience to move on.  
"Horses must be watered and fed, sir", George answered while getting off the coach. "There is a tavern right here for us to eat something as well."  
Rochester just grunted indifferently in response. He remained seated, kept reading and waited for the coach to move on.

***

The greatest happiness on earth is sitting in the saddle of a horse. For many people this might have been true, but not for Jane. She had always preferred walking. Riding, she felt, was like cheating. To get somewhere one always had to cover a distance. When riding, the horse would cover a distance for you. Reaching a destination involved going through the trouble of getting there. On horseback the journey would probably be less troublesome. All the details one usually notices while walking would be ignored. However, Mr. Ernest Shrewsbury and Jane had no destination. They just rode across some fields. They were riding next to each other so they would be able to talk. But none of them said a word for at least twenty minutes. During that time, Shrewsbury just darted curious glances at Jane who pretended not to notice. Then, finally the young man spoke.  
"You are not from this part of the country, I presume?"  
"No, indeed", she answered quickly. "I am not."  
"Then, why are you here?"  
He was now obviously anxious not to look at her for too long. Whether he was trying not to convey the impression that he could be interested in her or trying to decide which way they should take, Jane could not tell.  
"An unexpected occurrence nearby requires my attention", she repeated what she had told Mrs. Fairfax.  
"Most interesting, Mrs. Rochester. I hope you shall stay a while."  
"To be honest, I will leave tomorrow morning."  
Shrewsbury was surprised.  
"Oh, will you? What a pity. I hoped to spend more time with you. Being with nobody but my father is always so depressing."  
"Depressing? I think he is very interesting. An impressive person and a respectable man."  
Shrewsbury laughed.  
"Yes, of course he is. He is also very ambitious and knowledgeable. Qualities I seem to lack. I am more of a practical person, you see."  
Jane tried. She was anxious to understand the situation between the two men.  
"Is that why you became an officer?"  
"I suppose so. As an officer you just comply with commands. You do not question them, you just obey. I like that." he paused, then added: "And I have always been fascinated by weapons."  
Looking at him, Jane suddenly wondered if Shrewsbury had ever killed any one. And if so, how many people he had killed.  
"But let us not speak about me" the man said, interrupting Jane's thoughts.  
She feared he would now suggest talking about her, so she quickly came up with a question.  
"Tell me, what is it like to be an officer?"  
Shrewsbury laughed again.  
"Oh, it is exciting, ma'am. Women adore men in uniform", he replied before breaking into a trot.  
Not all of them, thought Jane, following.  
The conversation that followed gave her the impression that he indeed did not intend to marry and have children. He seemed to have a woman waiting for him in every part of the world and he seemed to be content with this way of life. Furthermore, he really was an officer first and foremost. When he talked about handling weapons and fighting, he was overflowing with enthusiasm. Serving his country, Shrewsbury obviously felt, was his duty and what he was meant to do. A wife and children would be unnecessary obstacles. Mistresses, on the other hand, did not expect anything from him. They knew their purpose and their position and did not ask for more. Though Shrewsbury did not exactly say this, Jane knew that was what he meant.  
She soon wished they would turn around and ride back home.  
Instead, they crossed a stream of spring water after which the trail became uneven and rocky. At first, there were only minor rocks but soon there were rocks big enough to block the way. Shrewsbury was ahead of Jane but his horse had as much trouble getting through as Jane's. She was relieved when they finally reached an open meadow. Shrewsbury, after making sure that Jane had been able to follow, galloped ahead. The sun was beginning to set, bathing the landscape in a golden light. It looked wonderful. She wished Edward would be here to see it too. No, actually she only wished Edward would be here. She missed him again. She wondered what he was doing, where he was, how he felt. Sitting here on the horse's back, her head bathed by the blithe air, Jane's heart was suddenly overflowing with undying affection. For a moment she thought about riding back to her family with this horse right now.  
"No Jane!", she said to herself. "You have come so far. Don't stop flying now!"  
She forced herself to follow Mr. Shrewsbury. But where was he? She suddenly realized she had lost track of him. She rode on, her eyes searching the plain. She found him after a while, lying on the ground next to a fallen trunk, with his hands pressed against his stomach.  
"What happened? Where is your horse?", she inquired while getting off hers.  
"It bolted when I tried to jump over that trunk", he explained gasping. It was only now that she saw he was not just holding his stomach but trying to staunch a bleeding wound. The young woman immediately knelt down beside him and put both hands on the wound. Shrewsbury groaned.  
"But this wound", Jane remarked "How…"  
"It is not from the fall", the man explained. "It happened during a recent battle. It was a bayonet. I expected it to be healed up by now. Seems I was wrong."  
Jane pulled out a handkerchief and used it to soak up as much blood as possible.  
"We have to get you back to the house", she said, deep in thought. She looked up to see if his horse was near and spotted it a fair way off, grazing calmly.  
"Take this", she told Shrewsbury, handing him the handkerchief. "And do as I did. I will fetch your horse, sir."  
It was no easy task, but she managed to catch the horse and lead it back to it's master. Pressing the handkerchief to his stomach, he could soon mount the horse. He groaned heavily and rather lay on it than sit on it, but at least he did not fall off. Jane could thus mount her own horse and lead Shrewsbury back to the house. It was quite dark by the time they reached it. It was quiet and calm. Jane got off her horse, then helped her companion. A light breeze accompanied them to the door. Since he was not able to walk alone, Jane had to support Shrewsbury. The man, being athletic and strong, rested heavily on her shoulder. Yet, they made it to the door where Jane paused for a moment before leading him inside. She took him to a sofa in the drawing room, helped him lie down and then explained that she would go and send for someone to dress the wound. Beads of sweat glistened on the man's forehead, proving he was still in pain. As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm.  
"Thank you", he whispered. "You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation: but you: it is different;—I feel your benefits no burden."  
Jane shook her head, replying that there was no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in the case.  
"I say there is", he insisted trying to smile. "My cherished preserver."  
Her expression turned grave. Had she not heard these words before? Uttered in such an earnest, almost tragic manner that her heart started bleeding sympathy at once. Her longing for Edward seized her with increased regularity.  
Jane snatched her hand from Shrewsbury's grasp.  
"Don't call me that", she hissed at him, turning away.

***

He had to put Jane's manuscript away when they stopped again. They had reached their destination: The home of Mr and Mrs Fitzjames. Rochester could hardly wait to get out of the coach. Only a few more moments until he would see his wife again. He would fall to his knees in front of her and beg her forgiveness. It did not matter now that Blanche had just used him, that it really had not been his fault. There would be enough time to explain it all later. For now, he just wanted to see Jane, wanted to hold her, cover her face with kisses and take her home.  
He hurried to the front door and knocked impatiently. It seemed to take forever until someone opened up. It was the housekeeper, Martha. She was flabbergasted.  
"Mr Rochester?!", she said more to herself than to him.  
"Yes", was the brief response. He wasn't sure whether the woman was really surprised or just pretended to be. After all, she might have had orders not to let him in.  
"I am come to see my wife", he declared, firmly.  
"Excuse me, sir?"  
"My wife: Mrs Rochester. I wish to speak to her", he returned deadly serious. He was determined to talk to Jane.  
"I don't understand", said the housekeeper, puzzled.  
Edward grew impatient. He did not have the nerves to deal with Martha. He decided she would not be of much help.  
"Is your mistress at home?", he inquired, adapting his tactics.  
"Why, yes. She is in the parlour. Reading, I suppose."  
He nodded. "I wish to speak to your mistress then."  
Though she still looked greatly confused, the housekeeper finally let him in. She asked him to wait a moment and then rushed off to announce the visitor to Mrs. Fitzjames. Rochester looked around to see if there was anything here to suggest that this was where Jane presently resided. He saw nothing familiar. But that did not have to mean anything. She probably did not want to be found. He waited restlessly. When he was taken to Diana, she looked just as surprised as her housekeeper.  
"Rochester?", she remarked as well, in a slightly more collected tone. "I did not expect you."  
While putting the book away that she had been reading, Diana tried to look past him, probably to find out if he was alone.  
"Where is Jane?", she asked, rising from the sofa.  
Edward thought he might retort the question on her who put it: so he answered—  
"That is exactly what I am come to find out. So, tell me: where is Jane?"  
Rochester's expression signalled grim determination. Diana, however, looked earnestly confused.  
"What do you mean?", she asked, stepping forward.  
"I wish to see my wife. Now!"  
"I am sorry. I really don't know what you are talking about."  
Diana looked him straight in the eye as she said this. Concern was written all over her face. Edward said nothing. He just studied her for a while.  
"What happened, Rochester?", she asked as she realized he would not talk. "What is the matter with you and Jane? Has she run off again?"  
Well had she? He wasn't sure himself. Should not Diana be able to tell him? Or did she tell the truth after all? She did look very worried indeed. He turned his eyes to the ground as he remembered how he had made Jane leave the room when Blanche had been there.  
"I don't know", he replied.  
Diana grew ever more confused.  
"What do you mean you don't know?"  
He would have to tell the whole story if he expected to get help from Diana. And so, taking a firm footing, he told her about the letters, how Jane had found them, how Blanche had come to see him and how Jane had left. He told it as plain and objective as possible, without ever looking up. That way he avoided seeing that concerned look on her face. He closed his narration with asserting his innocence.  
"Well", said Diana who was still trying to fully understand the situation. "Have you told her that Blanche is obviously just trying to get your money and that the boy is not your son?"  
"I tried", said he, finally lifting his eyes to fix them on Diana.  
Jane's cousin sat down on the sofa again and folded her hands in her lap.  
"I cannot say that I understand what you have just told me, Rochester. But, I can tell you that if she believes you betrayed her, she might very well have run off. As far away as she possibly can. And I have not seen Jane or heard from her since her last letter in which she told me about Adèle's upcoming marriage."  
Rochester nodded absent-mindedly. He was sure now that Diana was telling the truth. That she really did not know where his wife was. Which meant Jane had travelled further than this. Considering how long she had been away now, that was quite possible.  
"She must be with Mary then", he concluded, turning around to set out again immediately.  
"Wait!", Diana exclaimed and—as he stopped—asked: "Where are you going?"  
"To find my wife", he responded coolly.  
Diana was shocked. "Now?! You'll never make it before midnight. Most likely even later than that."  
Edward walked on saying that he needed to find Jane.  
"What you need", Diana said, stopping him in his tracks again. "Is some rest and something to eat. You must have been travelling all day and you look like you have not eaten."  
"Well, I have not", Rochester admitted.  
"Have dinner with us, stay here tonight and then you can continue your search tomorrow", Diana returned.  
Ere he could reject the offer, her husband stepped in.  
"Ah, you are back", Diana addressed him, smiling. She kissed him.  
"I didn't know you were expecting guests", said Captain Fitzjames in a welcoming tone, as he noticed Rochester.  
"Well, I was not", Diana responded. "He arrived unannounced."  
"Ah", Fitzjames said, pretending to understand. Rochester and Fitzjames were on good terms with each other. They had spent many evenings playing chess or smoking cigars while their wives had talked for hours in the dining-room. Just like Edward, Fitzjames rather left the room when Diana and Jane began talking about St. John, his achievements and his life in India which were usually the topics they discussed when they dined together.  
"Where is Jane?", Captain Fitzjames finally added, turning to their guest.  
Rochester snorted, then answered: "Your wife will tell you while I go and tell George that we are going to stay here tonight."  
He thus left the room, leaving Diana to explain the situation.

Having had nothing to eat all day, Rochester was indeed very hungry. Fortunately, dinner was soon ready and they all moved to the dining room. This was the biggest room in the house. It was also the most sophisticatedly furnished room, with an oriental vase residing on the mantelpiece next to an Italian looking female bust, long curtains decorating the windows and yet only a single picture on the wall.  
Soup was served first and Edward eagerly looked at it, spoon in hand. But The Fitzjames' daughter Ada, who had joined them, kept him from enjoying his soup by asking too many questions. She was just so excited to unexpectedly see her "uncle," as she termed him.  
"Have you brought me a present, uncle Rochester?", was Ada's question at present. She had already learned from him that he had arrived in a coach while she had been out with her papa, that George had been his driver and that he would stay until tomorrow morning.  
"Who talks of presents?" said Rochester gruffly. "Did you expect a present, child? Are you fond of presents?"  
Ada nodded whereupon a frown crawled across his large forehead. Jane usually brought a present for the girl which always pleased her very much. He, of course, did not care about pleasing the child.  
"No. I have no present for you", he snarled glancing at the girl's parents who were eating in silence and did not pay attention to them. "And I am not your uncle."  
The girl's initial delight vanished at once. But at least she was silent for a moment. Rochester took advantage of it and hastily ate some soup.  
"But aunt Jane says I may call her aunt", the girl replied, pouting.  
Oh yes, Edward knew very well that Jane actually liked being called aunt by that little brat. He, however, did not. If it was up to him, he would rather not have Ada talk to him at all. She had such a high pitched voice, it annoyed him greatly to hear her talk.  
"When is aunt Jane coming down?", inquired Ada who expected Jane to be upstairs, still changing for dinner.  
Rochester did not feel like talking about this any more. He had been questioned about Jane enough for today and he did not wish to be reminded of his wife's absence all the time. Luckily, the main course was brought in and Ada was now too busy observing the servants to pose questions.  
Since (owing to Ada) he had not been able to eat much of his soup, Edward's hunger was satisfied only insignificantly. Thus, he too observed the serving of the main course eagerly. It was only when he saw the large piece of meat that his appetite left him. At home, he had been served soup, meat cut into small pieces etc. since Jane had left. He had had only things that he could eat, considering he was unable to handle a fork and a knife at the same time. A fact he had almost forgotten and which he remembered with a sudden horror. The meat now lay before him delicious-looking and smelling. He was sure it tasted just as delicious. Yet, his appetite was gone. Nevertheless, he took the fork and tried to cut off a mouthful. But the fork was not sharp enough. So he took the knife instead and tried to cut the meat into small pieces. But the meat would move together with the knife. Anger about his own inability grew in him and, causing his hand to shake, gave him even more difficulties to handle the silverware. He lay down the kife and, after looking around to make sure nobody had observed his pathetic attempts to cut the meat, proceeded to eat the garnish and potatoes instead while the others were eagerly consuming their meat. He said nothing though, as he did not wish to make them aware of his disability. It was in vain. Diana noticed that her guest did not touch the meat.  
"Do you not like wild boar?", she inquired at once.  
"Oh no, it is delicious", Rochester replied, instantly realizing the dilemma this answer placed him in.  
Diana raised an eyebrow.  
"You have not eaten any of it", she observed.  
Rochester looked at his plate as if noticing that himself just now.  
"Oh, but I have no doubt it is delicious."  
"You should try it", suggested Captain Fitzjames, just bringing the fork with some of the meat on it to his mouth.  
Rochester was silent. He looked down at his plate, feeling as if all eyes in the room were fixed on him, expecting him to take fork and knife in his hands and try the wild boar. But he could not. He had only one hand.  
"Oh, I am so sorry", Diana suddenly exclaimed. "I forgot about your…", she paused, obviously not knowing how to end the sentence.  
"Well, let me help you", she continued at last and thus rose, to come over to him.  
"No please, I am fine", Rochester objected. But she had already begun cutting his meat into pieces. A wave of embarrassment swept over him. He pretended not to notice Ada's interested look. The girl blatantly watched him. It was probably the first time she saw a grown man needing help with his food. A humiliating experience. Only children, old people and disabled people needed help with their meat. But not him. He was no child, he was not old and he certainly did not feel disabled. At least he had never felt that way when he had been with Jane. Somehow she managed to help him without making it appear like he was in need of help. She always made him feel like he could do it on his own if he wanted to. A favour here, a helping hand there. Never did she mention it. It was as natural as breathing—for both of them.  
In an attempt to avoid Ada's piercing look, Rochester turned his attention to the only painting in the room. It depicted St. John sitting on a wooden chair with a bible on his lap. He had never seen this painting here before. There used to be a painting of a tree in that place instead. They must have changed that since Rochester's last visit. After a moment of vacant staring, it reminded him of the fact that the man had recently died. He had forgotten to express his condolences. He had been so absorbed in his own misery.  
"I am sorry for your loss", he said quickly as if that could make up for the misconduct.  
Diana lifted her eyes to see what he was looking at.  
"He was a remarkable person", she replied as she realized who he was talking about.  
"From what I have been told, he was. I never had the pleasure of meeting him."  
Captain Fitzjames coughed audibly.  
"Well, he is in a better place now, I'm sure", continued Diana, tears glittering in her eyes. "After all, it is what he had always wanted. So we try to think of it as his dream come true."  
Not being particularly fond of that man, Rochester did not know wish, nor did he know what to answer. Diana realized this and, being done cutting Rochester's meat, returned to her seat quietly whereupon this conversation ended.  
"Thank you", Edward said in a low voice and commenced eating the bite-sized pieces on his plate, constantly comparing each of them with the pieces Jane usually cut.

***

With practiced facility, Jane cut the meat that lay before her into perfectly equal pieces. She did this by force of habit, not because she needed to. When she was done, she noticed Ernest Shrewsbury's curious look. The man was seated across from her and had obviously observed her every move. Jane smiled shyly as she lifted her head to meet his eyes. They were having dinner—a rather awkward experience, since the old Mr. Shrewsbury and his son preferred not to talk to each other. If they felt the need to converse, they conversed with Jane.  
A day had passed since Ernest Shrewsbury's accident. As predicted by Charles Shrewsbury, it had rained all day and there had been no possibility for Jane to continue her journey. The surgeon had been here to see Ernest Shrewsbury, and the young man now felt much better. By the surgeon's orders, he had spent most of the day in bed and it was only for dinner that he had come down. He still walked with some difficulties; but at least he could walk again. Jane, too, had spoken little with him, not knowing how to approach him after that scene in the drawing room.  
"I have joined the East India Company's army", Ernest Shrewsbury said suddenly, disrupting the sound of silverware on plates, which faded away as soon as he had made this announcement. The young man's father and Jane mutely looked at him. An astounded silence captured the room. Jane expected a reaction from Mr. Shrewsbury, whose expression revealed his angry sadness. But nothing happened for minutes. Then the old man finally spoke.  
"Mr. Graham called on me today", he declared, obviously trying to cover his anxiety. "He says there will be an impressive party in —shire tomorrow."  
"That is a neighbouring county", Jane noted.  
Shrewsbury nodded. "Why yes. And everyone will be at the party. Everyone!"  
Jane raised an eyebrow, unsure as to why he told her this.  
"Well", she returned, smiling. "Are you going?"  
The old man looked aghast. "Me? For heaven's sake no. Why should I? I'm too old for parties and I would not know any one there."  
"So you are suggesting that I should go?"  
"You?!", he replied in the same tone as before. "But no, why would you? You don't know any one there either. None of us would."  
"Then why are you mentioning this, father?!", ejaculated Ernest Shrewsbury sharply. His father's pretended indifference regarding his announcement did not leave him untouched, as it seemed.  
"Excuse me", retorted the old man. "That I care about other people. A fault of mine you have obviously not inherited."  
They were talking to each other. Finally! Unfortunately not in a way that Jane appreciated. She wished she had been able to leave today. Her eyes wandered to the window. It had stopped raining but the ground was now damp and cold. She would have to stay until tomorrow morning.  
"Believe it or not, there is indeed some one I care about", Jane heard the son say while her longing look was still fixed on the window.  
"Mrs. Rochester", he presently addressed her and Jane was startled out of her thoughts. She turned her head to indicate that she was listening.  
"Would you be so kind as to grant me a moment of your precious time after dinner?", was the question he then asked. A rhetorical one, apparently. Since, as soon as he had posed it, he rose and excused himself with the words "I will be in the parlour."  
Charles Shrewsbury went on with dinner as if nothing had happened. He talked about Mr. Graham some more and repeated the news concerning the party.  
"The party will take place at Gordon Manor", he explained. There it was again, that curious smile on his face. Jane wondered what it meant.  
"The Gordon family is a highly esteemed family", continued Shrewsbury. "Among their friends are the Dents, the Pearsons and the Nothams." He paused for a moment. Then added, in passing that it would be a most interesting company.  
The Dents, the Pearsons and the Nothams. Jane repeated the names in her head, then nodded appreciatively.

When Jane Rochester entered the parlour some time later, she found Ernest Shrewsbury sitting in the same armchair that his father had occupied on their first encounter. But the armchair was now placed in front of the window. To Jane's relief, there was no fire burning in the room this time. Instead, the window was wide open and Mr. Ernest sat quietly looking out at the English landscape. A breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; a stream, swelled with past summer rains, poured along plentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the setting sun, and sapphire tints from the firmament.  
"You wished to see me?", she said, waiting by the door.  
The young man, taken by surprise, rose from the armchair to come over to her.  
"Ah, there you are", he remarked. "I am glad you are come."  
And he turned to offer her his seat.  
She took the seat: Shrewsbury stood near her. He looked out the window again; his glance wandered away with the stream, and returned to traverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he let the breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow. He seemed in communion with the genius of the haunt: with his eye he bade farewell to something.  
"And I shall see it again," he said aloud, "in dreams when I sleep by the Ganges: and again in a more remote hour—when a slumber overcomes me—on the shore of a darker stream!"  
Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot's passion for his fatherland! He sat down on a chair; for ten minutes they never spoke; neither he to her nor she to him: that interval past, he recommenced—  
"Mrs. Rochester, I go in six weeks; I go to serve under Captain William Gordon. To fight for him. And to die for him if necessary."  
"God will protect you," Jane answered.  
"I don't know," said he, "But I am willing to give my life. I have thought it all over and I know there exists nothing here that holds me back. Nothing that makes me want to stay. And I believe that I have chosen to participate in a most honorable cause. It seems strange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner,—to join in the same enterprise."  
"All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to wish to march with the strong."  
"I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it."  
"Those are few in number, and difficult to discover."  
"You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up—to urge and exhort them to the effort—to show them what their gifts are, and why they were given."  
"If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts be the first to inform them of it?"  
Jane felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over her: She trembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once declare and rivet the spell.  
"And what does your heart say?" demanded Shrewsbury.  
"My heart is mute,—my heart is mute," she answered, struck and thrilled.  
"Then I must speak for it," continued the deep, relentless voice. "I have observed you these past two days. You are such a caring person. So patient and cooperative. Jane, come with me to India."  
The walls and the floor spun round. Now she knew why he had been watching her the whole time.  
"As your nurse, you mean?", she replied.  
"As whatever pleases you best."  
Jane took a deep breath.  
"I am a married woman, sir," she said with decision.  
Shrewsbury smiled faintly and then declared that since she had come here all alone and had not spoken of her husband once, he had drawn his conclusions.  
"You cannot love him. Indeed, I think you have left him and are hiding from him now", he explained. "Why? I do not know. But I'm certain you have your reasons. And what would be a better hiding place and a better place to start a new life than India? Far away from England, far away from your husband."  
A pause.  
"He must have been a bad man," observed Mr. Shrewsbury.  
Jane gasped.  
"You don't know him—don't pronounce an opinion upon him," she said coolly. "And besides, you think wrong. I do love my husband, more than you can imagine. And I have not left him. I am doing this for him."


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Märchen schreibt die Zeit**

The next morning was cool. Edward Fairfax Rochester expected it would become a sunny day. He did not wait for the sun to rise though. He had not been able to sleep and had thus been awake all night. He had spent the night staring at the ceiling where a shimmering light had danced for him. What had caused it, he could not tell but it had diverted his thoughts from Jane. At least for a while. However, as soon as the first rooster had crowed, Edward had been up and ready to move on to Mary and her husband. So, after a quick breakfast, he and George had set out again. Diana had made him promise that he would write her as soon as he found his wife so she would know Jane was well. Edward sent a quick prayer to heaven that, indeed, she was. This done, he picked up his wife's manuscript, which he had left in the coach and which had thus been lying next to him. There were but a few pages left, chapters 33 to 35—then he would have read all that she had written. He sighed and began to read. It seemed to him that St. John came and left as he liked and Jane accepted this. There he was again, crushing Edward's hopes of reading some thoughts of hers directed to him. What did that man want? Rochester expected a proposal. But no, not yet.  
_He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wasted like his face._  
The description of St. John struck Rochester as utterly superfluous. There really was no need to repeat again and again what a handsome man he had been. After all, what good had it done him? He was dead. Had never married, never even gotten to love a woman. And was it not, according to Alfred Lord Tennyson, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Lifting his eyes from the document in his hand and gazing out the window, Edward pondered that sentence for a while. But no. Should he really have lost her, he would rather die, no matter how well he had loved her and how well she had loved him or how many wonderful moments they had spent together. He would never be able to cherish these memories. He would curse them as they would corrode his heart, vex his mind and make life a burden to him. He resumed his former occupation. Mr. Rivers had, it turned out, come for a reason and began to tell a "tale" as he called it. Since Rivers managed to retell it with suspense and without any emotional saturation, Rochester read it with bated breath.  
_"Twenty years ago, a poor curate—never mind his name at this moment—fell in love with a rich man's daughter; she fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by side under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in ---shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity received in her lap—cold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in carried the friendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in-law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead…_  
"Jane!", the only thought he was capable of shot through his head. What a mean way to convey to her what he had found out.  
_…You start—did you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.—To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told; but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you know—being no other than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. It seems her career there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher, like yourself—really it strikes me there are parallel points in her history and yours—she left it to be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester."  
"Mr. Rivers!" I interrupted._  
He gasped and closed his eyes for a moment. In his mind's eye he could see Jane sitting next to that man, struggling to repress emotions too powerful to be restrained.  
_"I can guess your feelings," he said, "but restrain them for a while: I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester's character I know nothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an event transpired which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it was discovered she was gone—no one could tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hall in the night; every research after her course had been vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of information could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found is become a matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been put in all the papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted. Is it not an odd tale?"_  
Mr. Briggs, oh Mr. Briggs. He remembered Mr. Briggs very well. And hated him. But why Briggs? Rochester realized that Jane had never really told him how exactly she had learned that these people were her relatives and got even more interested in this story.  
_"Just tell me this," said I, "and since you know so much, you surely can tell it me—what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?"_  
A smile appeared on Edward's face.  
"That's my Jane", he commented.  
_"I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess—the nature of the event which requires her appearance."  
"Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr. Rochester?"_  
Oh! He had not seen his name come up in the document that often for a long time. He enjoyed it very much. It sent chills down his spine that she cared so much for his well-being—and for nothing else.  
_"I suppose not."  
"But they wrote to him?"  
"Of course."  
"And what did he say? Who has his letters?"  
"Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax.'"_  
Of course. By that time Edward had already been unable to write or read letters, having lost his eyesight. With that loss, the visions had begun. Every day and every night he had seen her, heard her and smelled her. Only touching her had proven impossible. A mere dream she had been—A mere dream she was now.  
_I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true: he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings—what object for his strong passions—had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master—once almost my husband—whom I had often called "my dear Edward!"_  
A sunny day it had become indeed. He noticed that now as he almost melted with gratitude and joy. Such sweet words. Reassurance crept into his mind. She would not—could not—have the heart to leave him.

***

As she rose and dressed, she thought over what had happened. Ernest Shrewsbury still expected a decision. She had obviously not been clear enough but Jane had not the nerves to face this man again. She had risen very early. By this means she hoped to avoid meeting Mr. Ernest and be gone ere he came down. She took all the things she had brought with her (which was basically just what she had been wearing and a letter from Mrs. Fairfax which had helped her find Shrewsbury's estate), passed Mr. Ernest's chamber as quietly as possible and then descended the stairs that led to the hall. Here she came upon the master of the house, Charles Shrewsbury.  
"Ah, Mrs. Rochester", he greeted her. "I see I am not the only early riser in the house."  
He smiled delightfully and waited for her at the foot of the stairs.  
"I was going to leave early. I have a long walk ahead of me", she explained, returning the smile.  
Shrewsbury nodded. "Very well, ma'am. But you did not plan to leave without having had breakfast, did you?"  
In fact, she had resolved to ask Mrs. Fairfax to provide her with some food that she could take with her to eat on the way. So she told him.  
"So you were going to leave without saying good bye?", he inquired.  
"Well, I did not want to disturb any one's rest. Really, I did not mean to be ungracious."  
"Impossible. No ma'am, you cannot leave without having eaten. I was just on my way to breakfast. Pray, join me!"  
She could hardly decline this invitation and so, after glancing up the stairs to make sure, Ernest Shrewsbury had not come out of his chamber, she followed him into the breakfast room.  
"Please, eat as much as you can", Shrewsbury added. "You never know when you will get a chance to eat again."  
"Thank you, Mr. Shrewsbury", Jane replied. "And thank you for all you have done. I am most grateful for all your help."  
He smiled again saying that he had merely provided shelter for some one in need of it.  
Jane tried a pudding which had caught her eye.  
"Mmmhh, this is delicious", she remarked. "Charlotte would love it."  
"Charlotte?", inquired Shrewsbury, frowning.  
She realized that she had never talked about her family as she had tried not to give too much away, even though she supposed that he had long guessed who she was.  
"My daughter", she thus explained.  
This seemed to stir something in him and his eyes began to sparkle.  
"Oh, you have a daughter?", he asked, obviously deeming this a subject worth exploring further. Jane did not mind talking about it now, so she nodded.  
"Yes, she is four."  
"Four?", repeated the old man. "How wonderful. That is such a pleasant age."  
He took a sip of his coffee, then added: "You know, I had a daughter once."  
This came as a surprise. Jane couldn't help but look at him in astonishment. She had thought that Mr. Ernest was his only son. At least that was what Mrs. Fairfax had told her. Then again, she had, in fact, just talked about him being Shrewsbury's only son, so that Jane had simply assumed that, at the same time, it had meant the young man was also Shrewsbury's only child. But what puzzled her even more was what had happened to this daughter. So she ventured to ask.  
"Well", Shrewsbury began, thoughfully. His eyes appeared distant and glazed. "She was Ernest's twin sister, nine minutes older than him. It is often said that the first born twin is the more dominant twin. And so was Anne. She often told him what to do and how to behave. But as they grew older, Ernest realized that, being a boy, he was stronger and taller than his sister. He would not listen to her anymore. And he began to develop interests of his own. As most boys do, he became very interested in weapons and would spent all day running around in the woods with his rifle. Anne, of course, thought this a rather dull activity. They were both 14 years old, when one day—it was a day of hard frost, about the middle of February, and the hour was near noon; in the country the air was clear, with the exception of the few drifting snow-flakes which the east wind drove in fantastic courses ere they settled on the ground—Anne wanted to go ice skating on a nearby lake. But Ernest refused to accompany her. He was busy cleaning his rifle, a task he always performed with the utmost accuracy. Now, Anne would not leave him alone ere he had promised her to meet her at the lake as soon as he was done. After much pleading, he did promise and Anne went out to the lake. Ernest continued cleaning his rifle for hours. When it was late afternoon and the sun began to set, I began to worry and asked him about his sister. It was only then that he remembered she had asked him to go ice skating with her. We immediately set out for the lake."  
Shrewsbury paused and sighed heavily. His eyes were fixed on the cup of coffee. Jane observed him compassionately. She expected the worst; and was proven right.  
"We found her there", the old man went on. "She had broken through the ice and frozen to death."  
"Good Lord!, said Jane. "I am so sorry. It must be the most dreadful experience in the world to lose a child. And to die so young, what a shame! I am so sorry."  
A moment of silence followed during which Jane feared Shrewsbury would begin to weep. But instead of indulging in grief and sorrow, he lifted his eyes and there came upon his face a strange expression of confidence. With warmth in his voice, he said: "When I was a boy, my mother used to read to me; she had many books, and in one of them it said that a person was called from a cheerful company at table. The following day, this person asked what it had been like after he had left. He was told: "Oh, a number of things happened; but, actually, you did not miss anything.'"  
Jane could not help but smile at this. She understood and thought it was a beautiful story. Shrewsbury had certainly provided her with more than mere shelter. He had reassured her, pointed her in the right direction and now he had shown her that it was possible to cope with situations much worse than her own.  
After this, they only talked of pleasant things while they finished breakfast and, when they were done and Jane had announced that it was time for her to leave if she wished to reach her final destination in time, Shrewsbury accompanied her to the front door.  
"Thank you again, sir", Jane said once more.  
"It was a pleasure, really. I wish you all the best for the remainder of your journey and I hope it will be crowned with success."  
She prepared to leave but turned around again after a few steps and said with a smile: "By the bye, it may please you to know that Edward Fairfax Rochester did marry that woman he had fallen in love with; and they have six wonderful children together."  
Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach and lingered there a moment.  
"Seven actually", she then added, turned around and moved on.

***

The coach rattled along the road. They were now on a sort of common; but there were houses scattered all over the district; They were in a different region, more populous, less picturesque; more stirring, less romantic. Inside the coach, Rochester sat absorbed in his wife's manuscript. He didn't perceive that the landscape had changed again. He was much more occupied with the changes that had occurred in the last two chapters of Jane's autobiography. The conclusion of Mr. Rivers tale was that Jane's uncle had died and had left her twenty thousand pounds. Indeed a most impressive fortune. His Jane had become rich. And that, not only in matters of money, but also in matters of family relations. For Mr. St. John and his sisters turned out to be her cousins. So, by losing one relation she had gained three others. Rochester, however felt that a cankering evil sat at his heart and drained his happiness at its source—the evil of suspense. He could not at all share the happiness which Jane expressed in her book and which suddenly took up all her thoughts. For it directed her thoughts away from him to all her new acquisitions and how she would handle them. It bothered him that there was no mention of his name for so many pages. It threatened to displace his previous feeling of reassurance and bring back that hollow feeling of loss that had pervaded his mind ever since he had found his house void of Jane's vitalising presence. When he was just about to lay the manuscript aside in frustration, another change occurred in the narrative.  
_Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was still with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse, nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name graven on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving to know what had become of him followed me everywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage every evening to think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom each night to brood over it._  
The reader was cheered up considerably. It was as if she knew exactly when it was time to remind readers and herself of that other person whose life fate had irreversibly interwoven with her own. But his joy, once again, did not last long. He had known that St. John would propose to her at some point; Jane had talked about it often enough. Yet, he had a feeling like a bee had stung him when Rivers finally did propose and asked her to accompany him to India.  
Nobody would be able to read this autobiography, though Edward. It would certainly drive every reader crazy. It proved to be a maddening up and down of emotions. Accordingly, the author also very well knew when it was time to remind the reader that that particular person, whose life had touched hers, had hurt and disappointed her to the point that she had despised him.  
_The case is very plain before me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land—Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to him. Of course (as St. John once said) I must seek another interest in life to replace the one lost: is not the occupation he now offers me truly the most glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill the void left by uptorn affections and demolished hopes? I believe I must say, Yes…_  
"No", Edward ejaculated, shuddering. "Your business is to be with him you love best. Or at least him who loves you best." More than ever he wished to be able to speak with her, pour out his heart and seek her forgiveness.  
_…"Oh! I will give my heart to God," I said. "You do not want it."…_  
"But I do. More than anything in the world. Nobody loves you the way I do." If only he could show her. Convince her that his love for her was so strong he would lay down his life for her if that was what she wanted.  
_…"Could you decide now?" asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! I could resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant as a reed under his kindness.…_  
Rochester seemed to hear a hiss. The green snake of jealousy glided within his waistcoat, and ate its way in two minutes to his heart's core. He remembered how pleasant it was to feel his hand circled by Jane's little fingers. He had preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but Jane's soft ministry had been a perpetual joy. He pictured St. John—handsome and virtuous as he had been—in a marriage with Jane, drawing on completely different qualities of hers than Edward himself did. Would they maybe have suited each other better? Rochester knew that Jane suited him: but did he suit her?  
_… "I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and now—come afterwards what would!"…_  
The roads were heavy, the day bright; George, as Rochester realized now, let his horses walk for a long while. At last he turned in his seat and called—  
"Sir, you're noan so far fro' Thornfield now."  
Surprised, Edward looked out: they were passing a church; he saw its low broad tower against the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter. Indeed, they were near Thornfield. A stifling feeling made it impossible for him to reply anything. Thornfield. Thornfield. The very name now sounded as if it was a place in another world, another reality, the setting of a different story. Oh! He could not bear to look at it. He would not. Too many unhappy memories were confined in that place. And confined they ought to remain. He averted his eyes ere Thornfield Hall was in sight and returned to Jane's story.  
_…He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, almost as if he loved me (I say almost—I knew the difference—for I had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated of Heaven._  
Thus her notes ended.  
His heart beat fast and thick: He heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to his head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on his senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake.  
"Jane! Jane! Jane!"—Rochester cried out.  
"What have you heard, sir? What do you see?" asked George.  
But he saw nothing and heard nothing. It had merely been a riot of emotions. Emotions that had accumulated while he had been reading all the kind words Jane had for St. John. Words that Rochester wished she would have reserved for him.  
The horses were now moving faster again. As soon as they had passed Thornfield, Rochester allowed himself to look out and his eyes to explore the familiar scenery for a while until it ceased to be familiar and the red sunbeams of the dying day bled across the ever more roughening landscape. When George announced that they were now driving into their destination county, Edward reluctantly put the last page aside. It had left him unsatisfied. This could not be the end of her story. He wanted to believe that it was not. That she just had not known how or had not gotten the chance to finish it. For the remainder of his journey there was but one thought that occupied his mind: "How will the story end?"

***

"Seven", she said to herself while walking along the lane. It sounded good. "Seven", she repeated and her hand unconsciously moved to her stomach again. It was still flat and firm. It would take a few more weeks until it would show. "Seven."  
Jane walked for hours. For a moment, her thoughts drifted back to Edward. How would he react? What would he say? He had always been pleased to hear about a new baby. He loved his children so much. Each of them was, as he said, the personification of their love. But the circumstances were different this time. Very different, indeed. It had not exactly been their love that had borne this child. She sincerely hoped he would not look at it as a reminder of that, as the personification of whatever feelings had driven him.  
She forced herself to focus on her plan and think it over. It would work, it had to work. She would have to be careful and it was founded on an assumption but she would have to take a chance. She saw no other way.  
Just then, Jane arrived at a crossroads. She didn't have to stop, though. She knew the way. The path was visible before her eyes as if some one or some thing was guiding her. An invisible force seemed to push her along. So she continued her way. Cattle came in sight after a while. And then cottages. Both belonged to a little village—A village she knew very well. She had been here often. A happy moment it was for her when she set foot into it for the first time in so many years. And yet, an air of melancholy accompanied her happiness. Hay had a unique significance to her. And it were the cottages and houses of Hay that surrounded her now. She immediately spotted the little post-office. Her very last memory of a life in which she was ignorant of the fact that a man named Edward Fairfax Rochester could open doors for her to a world she would never have dreamed of was made here. However, Jane knew that she had to move on, she must not waste time. And so, she only looked for a place to eat and drink something before she would continue her way. Finding a place, however, proved more difficult than she had expected. There seemed to be nobody here anymore whom she knew. She went to two bakers, a butcher and an inn. None of the people there recognized her and she did not want to beg for food again. She gave up at last and resolved to move on without lunch. She was just passing a little farmhouse when she heard some one calling "Young woman. Wait a minute."  
Though surprised, she stopped. A woman was standing in front of the farmhouse, feeding some chicken. She came to the low fence now where Jane was waiting.  
"I know you, I'm sure", she said with curiosity. "I have seen you before."  
And she began studying the stranger's face with interest. Jane did not exactly feel uncomfortable. It was just that she had no time to stay and talk. And, after all, she did not recognize that woman.  
"Ah, I know", cried that woman. "You used to be the governess at Thornfield Hall."  
Jane flinched but did not reply anything.  
"Yes, I'm quite sure that is where I know you from. I am Mrs. Fenwick. I worked at Thornfield once. Only for a few weeks in summer. That must have been 9 or 10 years ago. Or longer even, I don't remember."  
Her look wandered away from Jane towards Thornfield which, however, was hidden behind the hills.  
"We never spoke. But I remembered having seen you there when people started talking about you because of that…" she paused and her expression changed to something rather gloomy.  
"Incident", she ended the sentence.  
Jane coughed. Now she did feel uncomfortable.  
"I would have thought you had gone away. Every one thinks so."  
She paused again, then added: "Mr. Rochester is long gone, you see."  
Yes, she knew it. And she certainly did not wish to hear the story again. Mr. Shrewsbury's version of it had been informative enough. Jane avoided having it told to her again by telling the woman that she was not here to see Mr. Rochester but that she was just on the way through and intended to have lunch in Hay.  
"Ah", replied Mrs. Fenwick. "And have you found a good place to eat?"  
Jane shook her head and told her how she could find nobody whom she knew and how she had been robbed and, thus, had no means to buy anything.  
"Good!", answered the other woman. Jane wondered if she had actually been listening to what she had said. But Mrs. Fenwick explained that she had gathered many eggs in the morning—more than she and Mr. Fenwick could eat and that it had been like this for a week.  
"Because, you see", she added. "Mr. Fenwick is really sick and he cannot eat much. And we cannot sell them on the market because Mr. Fenwick, of course, cannot go there now. And I can hardly leave him alone for long to go and sell the eggs because Mr. Fenwick, he is really sick."  
Jane smiled compassionately. Mr. Fenwick, it seemed, was really very sick.  
"Oh, but if you have a moment, I will go and get a basket with eggs for you. And off she went just to return with a little basket full of eggs a few minutes later.  
Jane thanked Mrs. Fenwick at least thrice and told her that this really wasn't necessary just as often. But the woman insisted on her taking the basket until Jane gave in. Basket in hand and having thanked her once more, she then continued her way.  
She now took the very same way she had taken that fateful day on which she had set out to post a letter. The ground was hard, the air was still, the road was lonely; She walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for her in the hour and situation. It was quarter to three; the church bell tolled. The charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. She was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for the hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where some cattle now browsed.  
Having reached the middle of this lane, Jane came upon a stile which led thence into a field. She sat down on it. She turned. From her seat she could look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was still the principal object in the vale below her; its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. But Mrs. Fairfax had been right. It had not been rebuilt. It was merely a ruin now. The vacant and eye-like windows seemed to fix upon her a look of reproach. She averted her eyes.  
On the hill-top above her sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening momentarily, it looked over Hay, which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was a mile distant, but in the absolute hush Jane could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. Her ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths she could not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough of the most remote. She listened carefully, expecting to hear a noise. A rude noise breaking on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which would efface the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, efface the aërial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds where tint melts into tint. She waited. She wanted to hear that noise. She craved it. It had to…and then she did hear something. A din on a causeway. A horse, or rather, a coach. She turned her head to where she thought it was coming from.  
"Jane! Jane! Jane!" —nothing more.  
"O God! what is it?" she gasped.  
She might have said, "Where is it?" for it seemed to come out of the air—or from under the earth—or from overhead. She had heard it—where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being—a known, loved, well-remembered voice—that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.  
"I am coming!" she cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" she flew from her seat and looked up and down the lane: it was dark. She ran back and into the field: it was void.  
"Where are you?" she exclaimed.  
The hills beyond Hay sent the answer faintly back—"Where are you?" she listened. The wind sighed low in the bushes: all was loneliness and evening hush.  
"Down superstition!" she commented. "This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was roused, and did—no miracle—but her best."  
Looking about, she realized she was still standing in the field. She returned to the lane at once. Cursing herself again for having fallen prey to such superstition, she fetched her basket of eggs which she had left at the stile and then marched on determinedly and rapidly. The only stop she would make afterwards was to eat most of the eggs and drink some water at a well. Since she walked so quickly she reached her final destination only three hours later.  
It was as she had expected: The coach was already standing in front of the house.

***

Like a secret document that must be guarded closely, Jane's autobiography lay in the coach next to Rochester. And he, as if trying to absorb its contents with his eyes, stared at it emphatically. But the words on the pages only seemed to laugh at him and his inability to grasp their meaning. Their author was an unknown person to him. Foreign and undecipherable. Chewing on his lower lip contemplatively, he took up the manuscript again, held it up before his eyes and fixed an intense look on an unwritten sentence.  
His curiosity was almost driving him crazy. His mind worked like a clockwork and made his head ache in an attempt to make sense of Jane's last sentences and the actions that had followed her writing them.  
_I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated of Heaven._  
What could it mean? What was the right thing to do? What path had she taken?  
"Wharton Cottage", announced George all of a sudden and stopped the coach. They had arrived.  
The Wharton's home was a detached cottage set amidst beautiful open countryside with panoramic views over the valley and surrounding hills. An old stonewall enclosed the cottage and a garden adjacent to it. A few trees, looking as if they had been standing there ever since the beginning of time, were scattered around the house. It was a delightful sight for which Rochester, however, had no eye. Instead, leaving the autobiography behind, he jumped out of the coach and ran up to the cottage's front door. It was possible that maybe even Jane herself would open the door, thought Edward as he knocked. To be prepared, he put on a smile.  
The door was opened. It was Mary who stood before him.  
His expression changed immediately to something less kind and cheerful.  
"Where is Jane?", he asked, or rather demanded. "Take me to her. I am taking her home with me."  
Mary smiled insecurely. "What are you talking about?"  
"I cannot live without her and I need to talk to her. I shall explain everything if she grants me a conversation. Go and tell her that.", he paused, then added: "Or better, tell her to come out."  
Mary frowned but did not move.  
"I would, if I knew where she was."  
That was too much. They played tricks on him. He would not stand it. He pushed the door open and Mary aside.  
"I am not a fool", he exclaimed. "And I am not to be treated as one."  
And, looking around, he repeated his initial question: "Where is Jane?"  
"I don't know. She is not here", was the answer, uttered with scorn.  
But Rochester KNEW that she was. He needed her to be here. And he had good reasons to believe that she was. In fact, he had never been so sure in his life. He turned around and began searching the cottage. Calling her name over and over again, he looked into every room and scrutinized every corner. Yet, his wife was nowhere to be found. Obviously, she did not want to be found. Blind with rage, he returned to Mary who was still standing where he had left her, apparently afraid to move.  
"You are hiding her", Edward ejaculated. "You are probably acting upon instructions. Jane told you it was the right thing to do. But it is not. I hereby revoke these instructions. Jane probably invoked your help, relying on you as a cousin. But it signifies nothing. She did not know what she was doing. She thought she did, but I assure you, she did not. Jane herself acted upon false impressions. You are more helpful to her if you tell me where she is. So, you see, you can now abandon your deceit and your deceiving words. I believe none of it."  
Meanwhile, Mary had turned pale as a ghost. But she only repeated that she knew nothing of Jane's whereabouts.  
"It is not true", Rochester shouted. "Tell me where she is!"  
At that moment, Mr. Wharton entered. He was wearing his cassock, he had obviously just come back from holding a church service. Without realizing who it was that was shouting at his wife, he positioned himself between the two, trying to protect Mary.  
"Rochester?!", Wharton said in disbelief, as he finally recognized the other man. "What do you think you are doing? Lower your voice."  
Rochester regained his composure and fixed his gaze on the clergyman now.  
"Let me see her", he pleaded, urgently.  
"Who?", asked Wharton.  
"My wife. She belongs to me and I belong to her. I love her. Every atom of her flesh is as dear to me as my own. It hurts to be parted from what is part of me. You must understand that, Wharton. You love your wife, do you not?"  
Wharton turned to take a look at his wife. There were tears in her eyes, as he answered.  
"I understand. And of course I love my wife. But I fail to see the connection. What has all this to do with Jane?"  
Rochester, still assuming Jane was here with Mary and her husband and had told them everything, only gave a brief summary of how Jane had misunderstood the situation between Blanche and him and how he had believed to be able to set things right once Blanche had left Gavelkind; but that Jane had been faster and that he had been left with nothing but her autobiography to find her. He also told them about the nature of that autobiography and how it had reflected her current state of mind.  
"And with her manuscript, she led me right to you. So that is how I know she is here", Edward ended.  
Wharton nodded and looked at him with knowing eyes.  
"A reasonable assumption", he agreed while seating himself on a nearby chair. "But I must disappoint you. I'm afraid it is wrong. As God is my witness, I tell the truth when I say that Jane is not here."  
Rochester recoiled as if he had been struck. He trembled visibly and leaned against the wall for support. Had _he_ been so wrong that day? Had he not seen what he believed he had seen? Had he not said what he believed he had said?


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: When You Say Nothing At All**

Patience is the greatest of all virtues. All Jane had to do now was to wait. So, she settled herself behind a tree and, keeping an eye on the coach, she waited. Behind her, the sun had almost set. A weak glow was the only remnant of the waning day. Soon, darkness would have completely replaced sunlight. And then, finally, she would be able to do what she had prepared for so long.

[flashback]

Semi-darkness surrounded her like a shroud. The moon outside was the only source of light. She listened to her husband breathing irregularly. He had turned around as well, she had heard him move under the blanket. He was probably facing her back now. But Jane lay silent, unable to endure his touch, she pretended to have fallen asleep.  
"Jane", she heard his vibrating voice. It pleased her to hear him say her name. Such a soothing voice. Even though she could not tolerate _his_ touch and _his_ kisses, she wanted nothing more than to turn around and cover his face with kisses from _her_.  
"Jane please! Tell me you hate me—tease me, vex me; yell at me if you like. But do not ignore me any longer. I cannot live like this. This is living hell. It is like burning alive, Jane. Purgatory would be a blessing compared to this."  
She heard his words, they went straight to her heart where they were received with sympathy. She had already forgiven him his faux pas with Blanche. Yes, it pained her to know he had been that close to Blanche once, but she knew that his love for her, his wife, was real and went deeper than anything else in the world and that the whole situation pained him even more than herself. His suffering, in turn, hurt her more than the fact that he had made a foolish mistake over ten years ago.  
"You don't know what you are doing", she heard him say.  
Her heart stopped mid-bead and her mind raced to keep up with what her ears were hearing.  
"You don't know what you are doing", she repeated his words in her head. Why had he said that? It was the choice of words that startled her. Something about it struck her as singular. And then, suddenly, she knew. It wasn't really what he had said but what he had _not_ said. She would have expected a "You don't know what you are doing _to me_." In fact, it appeared almost as if he had left out that part deliberately. But why would he do that? It could only mean that he wasn't concerned about himself or his own pain caused by her behaviour towards him. Yes, now she understood.  
"I do very well know what I am doing", she thus replied. At first, her ideas were rather vague and chaotic. But, forcing herself to concentrate, she soon managed to order them. She had to be strong now. She could not, must not, show her feelings. Edward had to be kept at a distance. She had to make him believe that her anger was directed towards him. It was the only safe way. The only way to help him.  
She thus made a plan and began to put it into action from the following day on.  
And then, Mr. Lovell came. According to plan, she behaved perfectly cold and distant. But something unexpected happened: Lovell began the conversation on illegitimate offspring.  
Jane paid careful attention to what was said.  
"I believe that it is wrong to blame the woman alone. It neglects the complexity of the situation. Neither should a child resulting from such a relationship be punished."  
"So it is solely the man's fault?"  
"Oh, no. No, sir. You misunderstand me. As I said, it is probably a rather complex situation and I think we should not judge Miss Ashberry, the men, or the child without knowing all the details."  
Those were Edward's very words. And again Jane's mind raced while her heart throbbed convulsively. The complexity of the situation? We should not judge without knowing all the details? What complexity? What details? His choice of words again struck her as singular. Was he still talking about Miss Ashberry? Certainly not. So he was again telling her something then. Namely, that there was more to the story of him and Blanche then she knew. But what? She could not tell. But she had an assumption. Again, days went by with her being a stranger to her husband. There was no way she could give up her plan. If she gave in now, Blanche would win.  
Finally, the day came that Blanche arrived. Now, of all times! Just when she had left the house for the first time in days. She hurried to get back into the house before Blanche reached it. She was just catching her breath when she noticed Edward coming down the stairs. Quick! She had to get into his parlour before them. As soon as she was in the room, she purposefully headed for the door that led to her own parlour. This she opened and then left it ajar. She did it so that anyone who did not know about it, would not notice. They were talking in the hall now. She waited in concentrated silence. Then, steps could be heard. She thought about slipping out through the door to her parlour. But no, they both had to see her, had to feel safe from her. Especially Blanche had to believe that Edward would not let his wife interfere. She thus walked over to the shelf and waited for them to enter. They did.  
"Does that person want you?" Blanche inquired as she spotted her. The woman's tone was utterly annoying but Jane bore it with grace.  
"Well", she just said, determined to push her husband to the extreme. "Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of me. I am his wife."  
Jane watched his reaction. It did not work. He stayed calm, looked patient. Fortunately, Blanche pushed further, insisting upon _Miss Eyre_ to leave the room ere she would talk. He certainly hated to hear Blanche call her _Miss Eyre_. Especially in such a patronizing tone. Jane could see it in his eyes. But no, he was still calm and, without making a scene, asked her to leave the room. In fact, he did it in such a calm and serious manner that it made Jane feel angry. She wanted to yell at him; curse him; let it all out. But then, suddenly, she realized that this was even better than any scene he could make. It did not just give her the chance to make both, Blanche and Edward, believe that she would not disturb them but it would also help to make sure that Edward would not prevent her from pursuing her plans further in case that would be necessary. And so she lowered her voice and threatened to leave him if he made her leave the room. The struggle that went on inside of him then was clearly visible in his face. She felt terribly sorry for him and it required all her strength and will power for her to hold his gaze. And then, unmistakable messages passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes. He told her how sorry he was but that he had absolutely no choice and he begged her to try and understand. Accordingly, Jane answered that she _did_ understand and that she would do the right thing.  
"If you please", said Edward as he dismissed her.  
Jane waited for the door to be closed behind her then rushed into her own parlour. As quietly as possible, she tiptoed to the second door that joined her room with Edward's. She positioned herself in front of the door and though she could see next to nothing through the tiny crack she had left open, Jane could hear everything that was said.  
"Well Blanche", she presently heard Edward say. "Why are you here?"  
His voice revealed how much he despised that woman's presence. But either, Blanche did not notice it or she just did not care. The second option, Jane thought, was more likely. While Rochester began walking up and down the room, passing the door again and again, Blanche told him about her husband and his loss. Her assumption, Jane realized, might not even have been that wrong. Rochester, just like his wife behind the door, seemed very much untouched by Blanche's story. A fact that Blanche now noticed herself, whereupon she stopped him, to Jane's convenience, right in front of the door. After thus finishing her sad, sad tale in an even sadder tone, Blanche revealed why she was come. She wanted eleven thousand pounds. Jane gaped in astonishment. This woman was disgusting. Edward, obviously was equally shocked and immediately refused to pay her such a sum. That was the moment, Blanche seemed to switch to plan b:  
"Well, I am not asking a favour."  
And though Jane could not see what was happening, Edward's strained breathing told her that Blanche was just going too far. Jane moved slightly in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what was going on. But all she could make out was her husband's back. And then, a surprising declaration reached her ears:  
"You know", Rochester said. "That the boy is not my son."  
Jane almost let out a yelp of delight. Fortunately, she reacted quickly enough and covered her mouth with one hand. She thus missed half of the following conversation but understood enough to know that Blanche was merely trying to extort money from Rochester and that none of her accusations were true.  
Jane had to suppress a gasp when she witnessed how Blanche slipped a hand under Edward's shirt. Unrestrainable anger threatened to overwhelm her. But her husband, though he struggled for air, spoke on in a formal manner. A ridiculously exaggerated performance by Blanche followed but Edward splendidly put an end to that woman's show when she moved her hand again. Though Jane wasn't sure whether it was the movement of Blanche's hand or the fact that she had called Jane his governess that had provoked him to get rough.  
A few moments later, the scene was over and Blanche left. Now the strategy Jane had pursued during the last weeks finally paid off. She was able to follow Blanche without Edward thwarting her plans.

[/flashback]

Jane had been sitting behind the tree for at least twenty minutes and nothing had happened. The coach was still standing in front of the main entrance and the door was still closed. She began to question if Shrewsbury had told her the truth. Or maybe he had just been wrong or the party he had mentioned had been cancelled. But then—why the coach? She was just pondering alternatives to the party when the manor's front door was opened and out came a lavishly dressed woman. In her glamorous evening dress and her twinkling jewellery, she looked very much like a doll. It was Blanche Ingram, of course. Jane was inevitably reminded of when she had seen her for the very first time and once again she regarded her with special interest. Blanche hesitated before walking over to the coach, turned around and called:  
"Are you coming, Thaddeus? The coach is waiting."  
"Yes, yes my dear. I am on my way", a voice was heard from inside the house and_ Thaddeus_ stepped through the door a moment later.  
With his slim figure he seemed fragile compared to Edward. The charming smile that graced his face appeared to reflect a superficial kind of love. His friendly, soft voice that most women would probably find disarming, for Jane, lacked expressiveness and vigour. Even his perfectly blond hair from which Jane concluded that the man was of Scandinavian descent, made him look harmless and rather unappealing. In short: he could not charm her. Had he not hastened to the coach's door to open it for Blanche, Jane would perhaps at least have sympathized with him. But the way he acted around his wife caused Jane to lose all respect for him.  
She waited for the couple to climb into the coach, for a servant to bring the trunks and for the coach to drive off before she emerged from her hiding place. She then made sure that there was nobody around and ran over to the house. There seemed to be only one way to get inside. She glanced down at her dress. It looked rather unclean.  
Perfect!  
She knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman opened for her. She was obviously the housekeeper.  
"Excuse me", said Jane. „I'm afraid I lost my way. And it is so dark already. Would you be so kind as to let me rest for a while?"  
The housekeeper frowned.  
"Inside the house?", she asked.  
"I would be most grateful."  
The housekeeper wasn't very pleased and she did not hide it.  
"Well", she replied, still holding the door half closed. "The master and his wife are not at home and I think that…"  
"Pray do let me come in", Jane pleaded with folded hands. "I will not be a burden to you, I promise."  
The housekeeper, who had probably realized by now that Jane did not look very dangerous, finally opened the door for the stranger to enter.  
"Well then. Come in and follow me into the kitchen. But do not touch any thing!"  
Jane nodded and did as she was told.  
"You may sit there", said the housekeeper, pointing to a chair in the kitchen. "But pray, do not touch any thing."  
She walked over to a table with a jug on it and poured some water into a cup.  
"You are thirsty, I suppose", said she somewhat unfriendly, as she offered Jane the cup.  
Jane took it and thanked her.  
So she was inside the house now but she could do nothing as long as this woman was watching her like a hawk. Jane took only a sip of water and then put the cup on the table next to her. She looked up at the other woman who was standing a few steps away. The woman looked too old for her age and there was impatience written in her features. Jane, however, did not intend to give in.  
"Are you expecting the master back soon?", she asked, faking interest.  
"Oh no, not very soon", was the reply. "Not before next week."  
"Ah!"  
She really did not know what to talk about, so she just sat mute and motionless, hoping for the housekeeper to retire. They thus spend at least a quarter of an hour in awkward silence, before finally a voice from upstairs forced the housekeeper to leave the room.  
"Betsey", a boy called. "Betsey, come and bring me my medicine."  
The housekeeper shook her head as if to say "annoying brat!" Yet, she walked over to the door and replied:  
"I'm coming, go back to bed, master Henry!"  
The woman shot a curious glance at Jane. Probably a warning, thought its recipient.  
"What is wrong with him?", she ventured to ask.  
"Nothing", explained Betsey. "He just likes to be pitied and enjoys the attention."  
Again, the woman did not hide her feelings. She appeared to be one of those people who are unable to keep any thing to themselves. And right now, she was clearly annoyed.  
"Wait here!", she added. "I may be some time. And do not touch any thing!"  
Saying this, she went upstairs.  
This was the chance Jane had hoped for. She waited a few minutes. Then, she knocked over the cup. In a few second, there was water all over the table and it began dripping down onto the floor. Without paying further attention to the mess she had caused, she rose and left the kitchen. Now, where would Blanche keep her letters? Probably upstairs in the bedroom, just like Jane herself. She guessed that that was where most women kept their personal belongings. Thus she ascended to the second storey. She could hear Betsey talk in the room that was closest to the stairs, so she passed that door and tried the one next to it. Voilá! The bedroom. She had to be quick now, so she hastened over to the drawer and began to search through it. Gloves, scarves, handkerchiefs. Jane raised an eyebrow. This woman possessed an inexhaustible stock of handkerchiefs. Each of which she probably only used once. Jane snorted contemptuously and continued her search. She found a pile of letters in an otherwise empty drawer. There were several written by her mother, some from people Jane did not know and finally the letters she had come here for: two from Edward and one from George Warrener. She opened Edward's letters first. In one of them he thanked Blanche for the invitation to Burrows Hall but declined it. Then he went on to tell about his own new home, his "divine" family and the gratifying life he was now living. He ended the letter with the words "I have no regrets." His letter was balm for Jane's soul and she caught herself smiling like a Cheshire cat. She took up the second one. In it, her husband denied being the father of Blanche's illegitimate son, repeated his unwillingness to visit her and talked about Adèle's visit.  
This time, when she had ended, the world wasn't spinning. Quite the opposite was true. The letters had a very positive effect on Jane. She could not fail to notice the proud and satisfied tone he had used when writing about his family. This was the Edward Rochester she knew. Not exactly the Rochester she had married, but the one she intended to grow old with. But she had no time to lose herself in thought. Betsey would probably leave Henry's chamber any moment now. Thus, Jane took Warrener's letter and read. At first, her expression rather indicated concern; then indifference. But eventually, she came to a part that sent a sudden wave of delight through her veins which, in the next moment however, mixed with resentment.  
She heard a door opening. She would have liked to take Edward's letters with her but thought it better to leave them and thus quickly pocketed only Warrener's letter and hurried out of the room. Unfortunately she wasn't fast enough and came upon Betsey in the hallway. The other woman was shocked.  
"What the devil! What are you doing up here? Did I not tell you to wait in the kitchen?"  
Jane managed to look perfectly innocent.  
"Forgive me", she replied, regrettingly. "I spilled my water and wanted to clean it up. But I could not find any thing to wipe the table and the floor with. So I came upstairs, looking for you. I must have chosen the wrong door. I am very sorry."  
The housekeeper nodded slightly.  
"Well then", said she, appeased. "That would not have been necessary. I shall take care of it. Come now." And she turned to the stairs. "But do not touch any thing! You see what happens if you do."

***

With vacant eyes, he stared at the calendar in his hand and then at the clock on the wall. It was the 13th of August, four minutes and thirty four seconds past five o'clock. Jane had been gone 15 days, 13 hours and 52 minutes. Another two weeks till Blanche would be back to get her eleven thousand pounds. He had not stopped looking for his wife. He still sent out men every day but he joined them less and less frequently. He knew that if Jane did not want to be found, she would not be found.  
He dropped the calendar and, instead, took up a drawing from the desk in front of him. He regarded it intently for several minutes before it knocked on the door and Mary entered.  
"Mr. Lovell would be here now, sir", she announced. "Shall I send him in?"  
Rochester was still looking at the drawing. It depicted a young woman wearing a plain, grey dress. She had a small mouth and dark eyes. Her expression conveyed distress and seriousness.  
"Mr. Rochester?", Mary tried again.  
"Yes, yes. Send him in", he replied, without looking up.  
Mary hesitated.  
"Will you receive him in your parlour or here, sir?"  
"Here. Thank you!"  
She thus left to deliver the message to the visitor.  
Even when Mr. Lovell came in, Edward was still looking at the drawing.  
The other man, upon entering, examined the room in surprise.  
"Is not this your wife's parlour?", he asked, without so much as a "Good afternoon!"  
Indeed it was. Edward spent a few hours in here every day. Sometimes he just sat in the armchair and looked out the window, sometimes he read. He had reread her autobiography twice now and he had read all the letters they had written to each other while he had been away from home years ago. He liked her way of expressing her love for him in writing. In one letter she had written a whole page about how much she missed hearing him say "Good night my darling" in five different languages. In another letter she had told him she missed his fingertips "for various reasons." This brought a smile to his lips every single time he read it because, in fact, he had—during the time of his complete blindness—developed a heightened sense of touch.  
"It is my wife's parlour", he affirmed. "I prefer it because at this time of the year the sun still shines through this window even when you cannot see it anymore from the window in my parlour."  
Lovell nodded in acknowledgement. He then looked quite startled when Rochester turned around to offer him a seat. For a few moments, he glanced at the host's face somewhat in shock. Then, since Rochester occupied the chair in front of the desk, Lovell sat down in the armchair.  
"What is it you were looking at?", the man inquired, pointing at the drawing Edward was still holding in his hand even though he had stopped looking at it. "Is that a picture of your wife?"  
"Yes", Rochester said briefly and quickly put the drawing aside. "She drew it herself, eleven years ago."  
The visitor stretched his neck, obviously trying to get a better look at the picture, but failed.  
"Where is your wife?", he then asked. There was earnest concern in his voice and he examined Rochester's face again with a frown when he continued: "I haven't seen her for a while. In fact, I have heard people say she…"  
"Please!", Edward interrupted him.  
The man raised an eyebrow.  
"Well but now that I have seen you like…like…_this_. I mean, indeed you look…"  
"That is quite enough, Mr. Lovell", Edward cut him off, his voice assuming a harsh tone. "I have not invited you to talk about my wife or about myself."  
The truth was that Edward had not talked to any one in the neighbourhood about the situation. He assumed, however, that people had heard about it through the servants. Mary was not to be blamed, of that he was certain. The same could be said for George. But old Clara—now she might have spread the word.  
"No indeed", replied Lovell. "Then, why have you invited me?"  
Rochester seemed to dislike the question. He nervously scratched his head like it would make the question go away if only he kept doing it long enough.  
"Well", he said eventually. "I heard that you have found a house to turn into a school."  
Lovell's features lightened up immediately as he affirmed the news.  
"It is not as good as Gavelkind but it will do", he added.  
"And you have already bought the house?", Rochester went on.  
"Oh no. But I will pay for it tomorrow and then…"  
"Listen, Mr. Lovell", Rochester said with a heavy heart. "I have thought about that offer you made. I accept it now."  
Lovell's face again expressed surprise.  
"I thought you said you would not sell?"  
"Yes. But things have changed, you see."  
The other man did not seem to be satisfied with that explanation.  
"If it has any thing to do with your wife, I'd rather not…"  
"My wife is not the subject here", Rochester insisted. "I have thought it over and after careful deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that selling the estate is the best I can do. Do not worry about me and my family. In fact, I have already found us a new place. So then, are you still interested in Gavelkind?"  
Lovell nodded hastily—  
"But of course."  
"When can you set up the contract?"  
"I will set it up as soon as I get home, Mr. Rochester."  
Edward's voice and hand quivered as he spoke again: "And when will I receive it?"  
"I will have it sent to you first thing in the morning."  
Rochester looked like a load had been taken off his mind. Yet, he did not seem happy. Indeed, it was almost like the old load had just been replaced by a new one.  
"Very well", he gasped. "That's that then. Good evening."  
And, without saying another word, he turned around again.  
Lovell, realizing that Rochester considered the conversation finished, rose and bid him goodbye.  
As soon as the door had fallen shut, Edward reached for the drawing again. He had found it last week in one of the desk's drawers together with an elaborate portrait of Blanche Ingram entitled 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank' while Jane's own portrait had been hastily drawn in chalk and bore the subtitle 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.'  
He had disregarded the picture of Blanche but had carried Jane's portrait with him ever since.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Faults & Mistakes**

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see the large drawing room in Gavelkind with such draperies on the walls as drawing rooms have; such carpets, such furniture, such ornaments on the mantelpiece, such paintings, including a portrait of the master of the house, and a river landscape. All this is visible to you by the light of an excellent fire (for it is late in the evening), and by that of a candle standing on a piano that faces the wall and at which Edward Fairfax Rochester sits playing a slow song. The door on the opposite side of the room is left open and there, listening attentively, stands his wife: she was let into the house by Mary a few minutes ago and, having inquired after the children, decided to see her husband first. The longcase clock in the room is now just striking ten.  
Reader, though Jane looks comfortable, she is not very tranquil in her mind. The tune that reaches her ears, though it is not meant to be played that way, sounds sad and dismal. It is played too slowly, too softly and monotonously. In short: it sounds imperfect; incomplete.  
It is a very strange experience to come back home after having left it without a proper farewell and without an explanation of one's plans. The charm of success sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then the throb of sorrow disturbs it; and sorrow with Jane became predominant as the sounds of the piano touched her heart.  
Feeling a strange sensation in her throat, she thus bethought herself to approach her husband. She walked slowly through the room, her eyes fixed on Rochester. She was only a few feet away when, as he turned his head to one side as if a noise had startled him, she realised that he had his eyes closed in order to concentrate on the music. What struck her, however, was something else. His well-kept sideburns were gone, or rather, they were now part of a full grown beard. Obviously he had not shaved for quite a while. Indeed, he seemed to not have taken care of his appearance at all. His hair looked unkempt, his clothes unwashed. He turned back. She drew closer. Every sound she might have made, was drowned out by the piano playing.  
Remaining unnoticed, she thus stopped behind him and watched the fingers of his right hand glide over the keys. She expected him to turn around any moment now in order to greet her and to welcome her. But as nothing of that sort happened, she sat down next to him and began playing the missing part.  
For a few moments, the song rang through the air in all its glory; complete and vibrant as it should be. Then, Rochester interrupted his playing.  
"What is the matter?" he inquired, opening his eyes. No sooner did he behold her figure than he rose from the seat. His body was tense and it took a moment before he could speak again.  
"Jane!", he said in disbelief. "It is you Jane, is it not?"  
She too stopped playing. Hearing his voice unleashed a whole swarm of butterflies in her stomach. Their number at least doubled when the couple's eyes met.  
"Yes Edward", she answered. "I am come back."  
As if she had become reality only by this validation, he bestowed on her the most gracious smile anyone had ever seen and sat down again just to kiss her eagerly.  
"Yes Jane", he affirmed. "It is you. You are come back."  
Another kiss followed. "But tell me Jane, where have you been? You look exhausted. Very much so, I daresay."  
Yes, she was exhausted. Due to the fact that she had had no money left, she had walked most of the way back home. When she could not walk any more, she had found accommodation in a small village somewhere between here and Thornfield. An old widow had taken her in and had provided her with food and a bed. Jane had stayed with her a couple of days so as to regain her strength. She had to be careful because of the baby after all.  
"I have been with very kind people, Edward. Among them, Mr. Charles Shrewsbury."  
"Shrewsbury!", Rochester exclaimed as if an idea suddenly struck him. "Of course. You went to see Mrs. Fairfax. Why did I not think of that?"  
It was a rhetorical question for he did not let her get a word in edgeways.  
"He must be an old man this Shrewsbury. I barely know him. Was he a good host? And how is Mrs. Fairfax? She likes to live there? And what did _you_ want there?"  
So many questions, so many things to tell.  
"One step at a time!", she answered. "Yes, Mrs. Fairfax is happy there. She is an old woman now, too. Does everything more slowly. But she is well. Mr. Shrewsbury was genial though at times he can be very stern. The same is true for his son, Ernest."  
"His son? Mr. Shrewsbury has a son?"  
"Well yes. He is about my age. A handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile. Indeed, he reminded me of St. John. The same obstinate determination. Just that he is on a mission for his fatherland, not God."  
"About your age you say?", Rochester repeated thoughtfully. "That is about twenty years younger than I am. More vitality, I presume."  
"Less experience", Jane returned with a smile.  
"Obstinate determination. A more resolute man, then? Very focussed?"  
"Less temper."  
"Tall, fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile. More handsome, you said?"  
"Less interesting."  
And, taking his head in both her hands, she added: "Almost every man I have ever met is more handsome than you are, more cheerful, and more indulgent. But you should know by now that I am not interested in any of these qualities, Edward. I love you just the way you are. I would not want it any other way."  
He smiled slightly.  
"And you will not leave me again?"  
"No, never."  
His expression turned grave—  
"You know, you have said that before."  
"Yes and I meant it. But I had no choice. I did it because of you."  
A spark of awe flashed across his face as she said this.  
"O Jane", he replied, taking her hand. "I do not love Blanche, I never did love her. In no sense of the word. You must believe me. This Henry is not my son."  
She did not reply.  
„Please", he thus continued. „Forgive me. Not telling you about the letters was a mistake. And not telling you that he's not my son was a mistake. I tried to but…"  
"I know!", she interrupted him. For an endless moment, her eyes examined his face, travelled over his features as if looking for something in particular.  
"I know", she then repeated. "I knew it when I left Gavelkind."  
"But then why did you go?" He shook his head. "No, no it is of no use talking about that now. All that matters is that you are back." He paused. "I talked to Lovell again. He will buy Gavelkind and with that money I can pay Blanche and she will leave us alone. So all will be well, you shall see. I will just sign Lovell's contract tomorrow and…"  
"No you won't."  
This objection of her was uttered so abruptly and decisively that Rochester was literally speechless.  
"Gavelkind is our home, Edward. You cannot sell it."  
"I know and I am very sorry. But there really is no other way."  
Jane reached for the letter in her pocket.  
"Yes there is", she said, handing the letter over to Edward.  
Her husband opened it, read it in suspicious silence, and then deposited it on the piano with a mischievous smirk on his face.

The servants, too, were glad that Mrs. Rochester was back. After all, the master had not been himself without her, or rather; he had been himself again for the first time in a decade: Moody, evasive and resigned. It was the only topic that was talked about among them today. Mary, however, was the only one who had seen missis since her return. She had seen the master too afterwards. Just before the couple went to bed, Mr. Rochester had ordered that they shall not be disturbed. That had been yesterday. The female servants excitedly discussed this circumstance while the men just smiled knowingly. On the whole, life in Gavelkind was much more pleasant and interesting again.  
With a tray in her hands, Mary now ascended the stairs to the second storey. Though it was already midday, she had not seen either Mr. or Mrs. Rochester all morning. In fact, no one had seen them today. They had not come out of their bed chamber yet. Mary came to a halt in front of their chamber door. She knocked and left the tray with their lunch in front of the door just like she had done with the breakfast. Then she walked on to the nursery.

Inside their room, Jane and Edward were still in bed, sharing her blanket. The other blanket lay, carelessly discarded, on the floor; Just like their clothes. For the time being, all their problems were forgotten. Lovell's contract, Blanche's next visit, the allegedly illegitimate son: none of it mattered right now. They lay skin on skin. Even their foreheads touched. Both of them were dozing.  
As she heard the knock, Jane moved reluctantly.  
"You go get it", said she, releasing her husband from an embrace.  
He groaned. "I got the breakfast, it is your turn."  
"I need to rest", she objected. "I am very exhausted. You said so yourself."  
"But Jane, that was yesterday! You have slept more than ten hours."  
This was the truth. Both of them had slept well for the first time in weeks. Both of them had slept for more than a couple of hours for the first time in weeks; Jane due to exhaustion, Edward due to the fact that Jane was lying next to him again.  
"Very well", she replied, getting out of bed. Jane hurried to the door since she felt like every second not spent with Edward was a second lost and she constantly felt the need to be as close to him as possible.  
The next moment, she was back with the tray and placed it on the nightstand so they could eat in bed. Mary had brought them bread, a very expensive kind of cheese and wine.  
"Mmhh, this is good", Jane remarked, trying the cheese.  
"What have you eaten while you were gone?", Rochester inquired, puzzled. He thought the cheese was nothing special.  
His wife seemed to think for a moment before she answered—  
"People's leftovers, mostly."  
Rochester winced.  
"Oh, but I had a very good breakfast with Charles Shrewsbury", she added quickly. "And dinner there was just as good."  
"I see. But you really should have been with me, Jane. You acted with precipitation. We would have found a way out together. And you should not have stayed away so long."  
Of course she could have just told him about the baby now in order to explain why it had taken her so long to get back home but she did not think this the proper moment. So she just smiled ambiguously.  
"What?", she replied. "Are you saying that I have faults? Are you suggesting that I make mistakes?"  
He nodded eagerly. "Indeed! Many of them. You are one big mistake. And I'm glad I made it. In fact, I would make it again and again and again."  
Watching her reaction, he bit into his bread. She only smiled, excessively happy.  
After having taken another bite, lots of small crumbs got caught in his beard. Now he really looked scruffy. One could almost have thought that it was Rochester who had lived the greater part of the last weeks in the woods. Jane wrinkled her nose, saying: "The beard has to go!"  
Edward pretended to be hurt.  
"What do you mean? Do you not like it?"  
"Not at all", she admitted, removing the crumbs. "Why did you not ask Mary to help you shave?"  
Jane knew he did not like to be helped by any one but herself, so the question was entirely superfluous.  
"Well", he responded. "I kept asking her not to help me since she kept offering me a shave."  
"Wicked woman!", Jane joked. She had already decided to help him shave later today. She would not tolerate this look. The beard made him look older and much more sullen than he actually was.  
"But does it not tickle nicely when I kiss you?", was Rochester's helpless reaction.  
Jane frowned as if thinking hard. "I must admit, I have not paid attention to it. I can hardly tell."  
"And now?" softly kissing her.  
"I am not quite sure", she answered. "Try again."  
He obeyed. This time, however, she put a hand on his neck to draw him closer, to deepen the kiss.  
Jane had almost forgotten how good it felt to be kissed by him, to be touched by him; his fingers exploring every inch of her body with skilled care, lightly brushing over her stomach, her waist, her thighs; while the expression on his face belied his patience. The separation had not affected their feelings for each other. If anything, it had strengthened their love and heightened their attraction. Yes, Jane was still very much in love with her husband and very much attracted to him, mentally and physically. And she wanted to make him forget all those lonely nights. And yes, the beard did tickle; not only when he kissed her.  
Pleasure took hold of her, seized her mind, and dazzled her senses. When passion and temper meet, with blazing hearts, they long for unity. And, entwined in their love, they merge into one powerful emotion; even stronger and more intense. So it was with Edward and Jane.  
He did not make love to her less passionately than the last time he had been so close to her. But this time he was in full control. He determined the pace. And he controlled it so well that Jane, in turn, completely lost control of her breathing. Her breath faltered as her body vibrated with tension. Demandingly, she pressed herself against him. Edward's lips lingered over hers as their eyes met to express what could not be conveyed in words. He restrained himself, however, before bringing them both over the edge, savouring every second of their act of love as if it was possible to capture eternal pleasure.

The beard had no chance. While sideburns added to Edward's masculinity, a full beard made him look somewhat wild and feral. It thus had to go. Before setting to work, however, Jane spent time with all her children. They were all very pleased to see their mama and overwhelmed her with questions. Unfortunately, Jane wasn't able to answer all of them. She still would not tell them where she had been and what she had done or what had happened between Edward and her. What she did tell them was that she had visited an old friend to help someone who needed her help. This, it seemed, satisfied their curiosity. And, after all, it was the truth.  
She was back in Edward's and her bed chamber before dinner. And she brought a razor.  
While Jane had been with the children, Rochester had gotten dressed, kempt his hair and ordered George to call on Mr. Lovell to inform him that Gavelkind would not be sold. Lovell, Rochester guessed, would be angry. But he would deal with that later, much later. When his wife entered, he looked decent and quite happy.  
"So, would you like me to shave the beard?", she asked, holding up the razor.  
Edward walked over to the mirror. He looked at himself for the first time in a week or more. His reflection did not surprise him, though. He had expected something worse. He had felt worse than the image in the mirror suggested. Perhaps Jane's return had already brought about an effect. And now it was time to again become the Edward she loved. Her Edward.  
"Yes", he answered, sitting down on a chair in front of the mirror. "But make it look the way it used to look. I've had it like that since I was nineteen years old."  
"Oh really?", his wife replied while preparing some shaving foam. "I did not know that."  
He looked up at her and smiled mysteriously. "Yes. You see, there are many things you don't know about me."  
Jane did not laugh. The memory of their first attempt to marry, when she had found out about his secret wife, was still too painful. Even now, more than a decade later, she still shuddered at the thought of it. Without saying a word, she began the shaving procedure.  
Noticing her reproachful expression, Rochester added in a cheerful tone: "I often lie awake at night to watch you sleep."  
Her features softened immediately. How could she have thought he still had real secrets?  
"Well", she thus replied. "I read books that I am not interested in just because you have read them."  
He smiled broadly and, as if having been challenged, he replied: "I did not really injure my foot after having fallen off my horse on that lane eleven years ago. I merely wanted you to stay with me a little longer."  
Jane, as she finished the right side of his face, frowned, saying that she did not believe it.  
"It was a sprain, most certainly", she answered. "You could not take a step without my help."  
"I am a good actor."  
The mysterious smile returned to his face.  
"You are a liar", she said, not being entirely convinced of it herself. Yes, a surgeon had been there to look after him. But after the incident with the gipsy, Jane could never be sure what Edward Fairfax Rochester would have done to impress her or learn more about her.  
Jane handled the razor with utmost care. She enjoyed her task. She enjoyed being useful. The truth is, she needed it. She would not have been able to live with a man who regarded her only as a status symbol, treated her like a doll he could dress, adorn with jewels and play with as he pleased. Indeed, Jane wasn't sure what would have become of their marriage had there not existed that _impediment_ that had prevented the first wedding from taking place. Their relationship would have been different, Jane was sure about that. In what way, she could not tell.  
"You know", Edward evetually changed the subject. "I thought that when Adèle and Baily are married, we could go to Paris with them in November. Adèle has not been to France for such a long time. I think she might enjoy it. And we have not been to Europe for a long time either. What do you think?"  
The enthusiasm in his voice surprised her.  
"I'm not sure", Jane said, absorbed in thought. She was calculating what month she'd be in.  
"No. Sorry, Edward", she concluded. "I don't think I will be in a condition to travel to Europe."  
She knew all the expressions of which her husband was capable, and the one that followed was most certainly a mix of uncertain confusion, undetermined concern and indefinable perplexity. Now would be the proper moment to let him know she was pregnant.  
"Not in a condition to travel?", Edward presently repeated her words tauntingly. "What are you talking about? Of course you…"  
"I'm pregnant."  
Rochester's jaw literally dropped. She figured he had probably expected anything but that. She could not tell whether this was good news or bad news for him and for at least five minutes he only looked at her. She felt the need to say something when, finally, he spoke—  
"You mean, you are expecting another baby?"  
"We are expecting another baby, Edward."  
It took him a moment to make sense of her words. When he had finally internalized their meaning, he took the razor from her so she would look him in the eye.  
"Are you sure?", he inquired. His voice was coarse. He obviously remembered the circumstances under which the child had been conceived.  
"I am sure", Jane confirmed, then kissed his forehead. She sensed that he was feeling uncomfortable. It was up to her to console him.  
"I know what you think, Edward. But I think the baby is a good sign. You must not associate it with whatever happened."  
"But I…", he began and was immediately cut off by his wife.  
"Ssshhhh", she said, kissing him. Then, she took possession of the razor again, adding: "And now sit still or I will cut you."

It was a sunny summer afternoon, when Jane Rochester sat down at her desk to write the last chapter of her autobiography. She had resumed working on the book two days after her return. Chapters 36 and 37 had taken her three days and she had still found enough time to play with and teach her children. It was as if with her husband close by the words almost wrote themselves. They came naturally and all she had to do was pour it all out on paper. Just now, Rochester was sitting in the armchair behind her, reading the newspaper. Every now and then, he chuckled, groaned, or commented on an article that caught his eye. Being absorbed in thought, Jane did not feel disturbed by it. She knew what she wanted to write about in her last chapter, she knew she had to give account of what became of all the people she had mentioned in her autobiography. But she needed to find the right words to end the story and she needed to put it down in the right order. But what was the right order? Still pondering this, Jane took a pen, dipped it in ink and, with a slight feeling of melancholy, she gracefully moved it across the paper.  
_Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present…_  
"Jane?", Edward cautiously addressed his wife after a while, knowing that she would rather not be disturbed while writing.  
Jane, however, appeared to have stopped writing and smiled kindly as she turned around to listen to what he had to say. He thus continued—  
"While you were working on your book, I thought about the baby."  
This time his voice conveyed positive feelings. Jane was glad.  
"Have you?", she returned still a little uncertain.  
"Why, yes. And I have come up with a name."  
This was a pleasant surprise. Up to now, it had always been Jane who had chosen the names.  
"Have you?", she asked again, though this time there was much more enthusiasm in her voice.  
He nodded.  
"What do you think about Edward Eyre Rochester?"  
"Oh my", she just sighed, whereupon Rochester put his newspaper aside and looked at her in confusion.  
"So you think it will be another boy?", she then added.  
He grinned. "Of course. I am quite sure about that. And as he is the product not only of the good but also the difficult aspects of our relationship and our characters and thus, so to speak, a perfect combination of our personalities, I think he deserves to bear both our names. That child is us, Jane!"  
As she listened to her husband's words, an overdose of love for him seemed to circulate through Jane. She adored the name without having to think about it twice. It was perfect. Pen in hand, she jumped up, ran over to Edward and kissed him thankfully.  
"So then", said he, contentedly studying her face. "Have you finished your book yet?"  
She seemed to be quite glad that he asked.  
"I think so. Do you wish to hear what I wrote?"  
"If I may."  
She laughed about his politeness. It did not exactly suit him. It always seemed so forced when he was polite. She did not even mind him being moody. She had become so used to it that she noticed it no more than his missing hand. With a suppressed smile on her face Jane returned to her desk, sat down, took the last few pages and read them out loud.  
_… My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. St. John Rivers left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord.  
Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them._  
"That's it", Jane said. As she put down the manuscript and looked at her husband with the proud expression of someone who had just finished a difficult task. Rochester, however, appeared to be lost in thought.  
"O Jane", he eventually said, compassion resonating in his voice. "I have not even told you yet."  
"Told me what?", she asked, a concerned look appearing on her face. She had absolutely no idea what to expect.  
"St. John passed away", Edward reluctantly answered her question. "We received the letter while you were gone."  
The young woman turned pale and distant upon hearing this. She had known that St. John was dying but she did not expect him to go so soon. Suddenly, what she had written did not seem right anymore. With his death, St. John took on greater significance. A numb feeling crawled from her head into her fingers.  
"This is wrong!", she exclaimed and opened a drawer, to take out St. John's last letter. For a while, she just sat and read it in silence. The letter told of illness and the prospect of death. It told about how St. John had sufficed to the toil, and the toil drew near its close: his glorious sun hastened to its setting. In the letter, he explained that he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. His words drew from Jane's eyes human tears, and yet filled her heart with divine joy. In an attempt to adequately pay tribute to her cousin, she concentrated on her manuscript again, reached for the pen and began to erase, replace and rewrite the whole passage.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Decisions For Life**

Having finished her autobiography, Jane spent much time in her husband's parlour. They talked almost constantly. It was as if they were trying to make up for all the conversations that had been lost because of Jane's absence. It was the third of September and they were currently discussing their children's education. Rochester had just suggested sending them to school.  
"We cannot do that", Jane replied. „I won't allow it."  
„But why not? Jacob and Eli are certainly old enough. We should have sent them to school a year ago. And Nathan can go too."  
„You know how I think about schools, Edward."  
Rochester sighed heavily. „Yes dear. But see, not all schools are like Lowood. Adèle went to school and you said her's was a good school."  
She already regretted having said that. What she had meant was good compared to Lowood. That did not mean she approved of sending her children to school.  
"But it is different with Adèle", Jane thus explained. "She was older and she was able to get by without her parents. Even _you_ were gone most of the time after you had brought her to England. Jacob, Eli and Nathan have never been without us, Edward. They deserve to be with us as much as possible. I will not send them away."  
Rochester, who had been leaning against his desk, sat down on a chair now facing Jane, who had taken a seat near the window, and leaned back.  
"Very well", he said. "Then we will have to hire a governess."  
"Certainly not!", Jane exclaimed. The look on her face revealed that she was downright appalled.  
"But Jane! We do agree that our children need to be educated."  
"Well yes. And I do teach them."  
Rochester smiled charmingly. "Indeed. But you are pregnant, Jane. And the twins are not even a year old. It is too much for you."  
„I can do it, Edward!", she insisted.  
He nodded slowly. "I know you can. But you will forget your own well-being in the process. You need to take care of yourself."  
Edward Rochester knew that his wife was the most selfless human being he had ever met and he knew her strength and determination. Yet, he also knew that, after all, she was only human.  
"So then", he ended. "Just let me hire a governess."  
"No, Edward; you are not to be trusted."  
He gasped. "What do you mean?"  
"I mean, you tend to fall in love with your governesses."  
This made him laugh, though, not very heartily.  
"Ah! I see now. You are jealous. Do you really think…"  
But ere he could finish the sentence, a knock on the door disrupted the discussion.  
"What is it?", Rochester growled.  
It was Mary. She had come to announce that Mrs. Blanche Notham had just arrived.  
"Blanche?", Rochester asked in surprise. He had truly believed that she would not dare to come back, especially since her visit was already a few days overdue. Unsure as to what to expect, Rochester told Mary to send her in. And so, a moment later, a heavily pregnant Blanche stepped in.  
"Mrs Notham!", Rochester said politely as he rose to greet her.  
"Edward", she replied. "What a pleasure to see _you_ again." This way she obviously excluded Jane, who had unmistakably been in conversation with her husband. Even Blanche must have noticed that.  
"I suppose you know why I am come", Blanche added with a mischievous smile.  
Rochester nodded exaggeratedly. "How could I forget."  
A moment of uncomfortable silence passed.  
"Very well"; Blanche eventually continued. "Then, I suggest you send your _wife_ to go and get what's mine."  
Blanche spoke in such a narcisstic tone that it made Jane feel sick. Yet, she did not say a word. She just sat and looked at the other woman. She did not feel hatred or jealousy anymore, she just pitied the poor child within Blanche. Would it be loved by its mother? Was Blanche even capable of loving anyone but herself?  
"Jane", she heard her husband's voice and looked up at him. "Would you be so kind?"  
She nodded, rose and left the room. Jane knew where he kept Warrener's letter and she knew this was what she was supposed to get. They had talked about it several times. Excitement rose within Jane as she re-entered Edward's parlour. Of course she hid her feelings and, with a serious expression on her face, handed him the letter. When Blanche saw the thin envelope, she looked confused.  
"Are you sure this is all?", she addressed Edward, raising an eyebrow.  
Rochester, however, just took the envelope and slowly began to open it.  
"Believe me", he said before unfolding the letter. "It is more than you expect!"  
Ere Blanche could react, he began to read the letter out loud, raising and lowering his voice dramatically.

_Dear Blanche,_

_Of course I remember that summer eleven years ago. I remember the ball and you. How could I forget? You were wearing the most beautiful dress. Indeed, you were the most beautiful woman in the house; the most beautiful woman in the county even. I assure you that I have never forgotten the evening we spend together. I still cherish those moments and always will. In any case, you must not worry. I would never talk about this with any one but you. But say truly, are you sure that I am the child's father? I was sure that we were careful enough and, indeed, I have no use for a child. Much less can I care for one. I, therefore, must inform you that I will on no account be able to pay eleven thousand pounds. I simply cannot. I do not have the money, since (due to unfortunate circumstances) I have lost most of our fortune. _  
_I have, however, pondered the situation and propose the following solution: Even though he can (after all you have told me) not be your son's father, I suggest that you write to Edward Fairfax Rochester. You both attended the party at Thornfield that summer and you mentioned that he seemed to be interested in you. He courted you, you said so yourself. I have heard that Rochester now lives in —shire and has, once more, made a considerable fortune. I therefore propose that you convince him of his responsibility towards the boy and demand those eleven thousand pounds that I understand you will need. Please send me word of your success. I hope to hear from you soon._

_Sincerely_  
_G. Warrener_

"You can tell him his little plan failed," Rochester remarked, folding the letter as patiently as he had unfolded it. He, then, put it back into the envelope just to hand it to his wife.  
Blanche watched the scene with the utmost disgust. Her lips twitched nervously.  
"What is this?", she finally managed to say. „Where did you get that?"  
"I found it in your bed chamber," Jane answered, coolly.  
Blanche's eyes began to glow dangerously.  
"You did not!", she yelled. "That is impossible! It's a lie. All of it is, you despicable witch! You made that up. You laugh at me."  
„No Blanche", Edward interfered, positioning himself between her and his wife. He would not let her get one step closer to Jane. Blanche, who had physically experienced this man's anger last time, stepped back.  
„It is over", continued Rochester, calmly. "You gambled and you lost. And now I want you to leave my house and never come near my family again. Farewell Blanche!"

It was only a couple of days later that the Rochesters left for London to attend Adèle's wedding. They took almost the entire household with them. Travelling in two carriages were Edward and Jane, all of their children, as well as Mary and George. In addition they had to hire a young man as the second driver. Eventually, the carriages were occupied as follows: Jane and Edward shared their carriage with Charlotte and the twins. It was driven by George. Mary sat in the second carriage together with Jacob, Eli and Nathan. Their driver was the hired man. Clara and Pilot had stayed at Gavelkind due to the fact that they were both too old for such a long journey.  
The journey was indeed long and tiring. Jane was already sleeping and Edward was about to fall asleep when Charlotte suddenly tapped his shoulder.  
„Father", she said emphatically. Dazed, he lifted his head.  
„Please tell me a story", she thus continued.  
„Now?", he replied irritated.  
„Yes." A compelling smile appeared on her face.  
„But I'm exhausted."  
„And I am bored", she pouted.  
True. The journey must have been incredibly boring for the children, especially for Charlotte as she was the only child in this carriage─apart from the twins who weren't old enough to care.  
„Well then", Edward announced. „A story."  
The girl's eyes glowed with delight.  
„Once upon a time there was a young...", he paused for a moment to come up with an animal. „Wolf", he then said. „A handsome young wolf. And as you know, wolves are pack animals. But this handsome young wolf did not like other wolves because they had treated him badly. So the wolf lived in a forest far away from all the other wolves. With him there were only some smaller animals. The wolf therefore was very lonely. All day long, he would roam the forest in search of prey and at night he would sit in a clearing and watch the stars. The sight was breathtaking; the innumerable twinkling stars formed a chaotic pattern of universal beauty that was unique to this spot.  
But, you see, no matter how stunning the stars looked, watching them was of no use if he could not share the experience with anyone else. It just made him feel even more lonely.  
One day, when the wolf was roaming the forest again, he saw a little bird sitting in a tree. It was a beautiful bird─very colourful. He wanted to capture the bird because he thought it would probably taste delicious and he expected it to be easy prey. So he hid and waited. But then the bird began to sing and you should have heard it─such a wonderful sound. The wolf was captivated immediately. In fact he was so captivated, he forgot that he wanted to capture the bird. Instead, he just sat there and listened. He listened for a very long time. And when the stars came out that night, he did not even notice them because compared to that marvellous bird's song, the stars were dull and vacuous..."  
Rochester stopped. Coming from Charlotte was a low snoring sound. She had fallen asleep. Her little face looked like that of a porcelain doll. She was such a beautiful child. Edward smiled, took off his coat and covered her with it.  
„I liked your story", he heard his wife's voice. He turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were open.  
„I thought you were sleeping", he said.  
„I am a little surprised the wolf wanted to eat the bird", Jane went on, ignoring his comment.

The wedding was a thorough success. Edward and Jane had arrived a day earlier to help with the final preparations. But there hadn't really been much to do for them since Mr. Baily's family had been busy making arrangements and taking care of everything already.  
They were very good people which even Edward had to admit. They were diligent and polite and modest.  
The priest Adèle and Baily had chosen was a Frenchman who spoke with a heavy accent. Jane had enjoyed listening to him, both because of his accent and because of the wonderful sermon he had delivered. After the ceremony, she exchanged a few words with him in French, before she joined the other wedding guests in front of the church. Most of the guests belonged to Baily's family. There were only a couple of Adèle's friends with their mothers who belonged to the gentry. Jane soon recognized one of them as Mrs. Howard.  
„Do I know you?", Mrs. Howard asked as she noticed Jane's look.  
„I believe we have met before", replied Jane.  
A pause.  
„Lord Faulkner's Christmas ball and party", she added carefully.  
Now the other woman seemed to remember. „Ah, of course. Are you come alone?"  
„With my husband", Jane explained.  
„Your husband", Mrs. Howard murmured. Her expression revealed her disapproval. „Indeed, I remember him."  
Another pause.  
„I am accompanying my daughter", Mrs. Howard then announced. „She is friends with the bride. But to say the truth, I do not understand why. There are almost no ladies and gentlemen here. I understand the groom is a watchmaker. I was told that the bride has a rather peculiar family. It is very confusing. I wish we hadn't come."  
Jane nodded sympathetically but said nothing.  
„Well", Mrs. Howard continued. „What caused you to be here?"  
„I belong to the bride's family", Jane briefly explained. This was the only conversation they had that day. When they all had breakfast at the bride's home, Mrs. Howard took care not to sit near the Rochesters. Jane did not mind. She was happy to converse with Baily's mother.  
While the wedding day itself was a warm and sunny day, the days that followed were rainy and much cooler. This was unfortunate because the Rochesters had decided to stay in London for some days to show their children around. Jane occupied a window-seat in the small breakfast-room, holding a book which she read to Charlotte. The little girl sat cross-legged on a chair in front of her mother and listened attentively to _Gulliver's Travels_. This book they had again and again perused with delight. Charlotte considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what she found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, she had at length made up her mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in her creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, she doubted not that she might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with her own eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other.  
While Jane was reading, she could hear the boys playing in the adjoining drawing-room whence, a moment later, they came running in and chased each other across the room. Adèle and Baily who were playing cards at the table, involuntarily got involved in the boys' game when Nathan tried to hide under the table and almost pulled down the tablecoth. And even though the rain pattered heavily against the window panes that were protecting, but not separating her from the drear September day, Jane did not care to study the aspect of that bleak afternoon. Instead, she enjoyed the scene that presented itself to her inside.  
Originally she had planned to take the children for a walk and they had been wandering, indeed, in a nearby park an hour in the morning; but since dinner the cool wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question. In short, there was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

**The End**


End file.
